Date: Sat, 23 Apr 2016 13:04:31 +1200
From: arthur carkeek <artcart65@gmail.com>
Subject: Drummer Boy Chapter 1

DRUMMER BOY
CHAPTER 1
BY ARTHUR


CONTACT AUTHOR:
artcart65@gmail.com

AUTHORS NOTE:

This story may contain scenes of a sexual nature between youths and adults;
it also contains scenes of death and injury

The story is the sole copywrite of the author and may not be used or
reprinted without his written permission. All characters are fictitious and
bear only a resemblance of some historical characters.


Limehouse, London England, 1808. Thomas Marking sat with a hungry look on
his young face as he watched his careworn mother prepare their evening
meal.

It was another weak soup of a few potatoes; two withered carrots and a well
used pork bone. The bread on the table was now two days old and there was
barely enough for three thin crusts.

Thomas looked over at his father as he sat in an old wooden backed chair;
every time the older man moved; the chair would creak as though from old
age.

Nothing in the small tenement was new; Thomas's father did not have the
coin to pay for anything better; his small military pension was barely
enough to cover their meals and rent, let alone buy fancy furniture or new
clothes for his only son.

The little home consisted of only one room; Thomas slept on the floor near
the small wood and coal stove. Water was carried from the communal pump
outside and toiletry was carried out in the small wooden shed that was used
by all in the three story block of tenements; the single bucket was emptied
by the night men although sometimes they did not appear for two or three
days.

Thomas parents slept in the far corner behind a thin worn blanket and, at
times Thomas could hear his father groan from the ongoing pain of his
injuries that were received during his service in the King's army.

Thomas had very little and his hopes and dreams had long ago been put aside
and forgotten. The destitution of Limehouse and its environs gave little
hope for any boy's future let alone one who was thin and underfed.

Thomas knew that the time had come for him to make the move that would
change his life forever; Thomas looked at his father as the older man
winced in pain again.

"Father."

"Yes son?"

"I...Uhm...want to be a drummer boy."

Thomas watched the reaction of his father as he stumbled out the words; his
hopes to help out the family were not looking good as he saw the frown come
over his father's face.

Thomas father reached for the wooden crutch so he could stand on his one
leg as he thought over what his only son had just said.

Cromwell Marking had lost his leg in the Maratha war under the renowned
Colonel Arthur Wellesley in 1803 when he was a soldier in the 33rd
Yorkshire Regiment. The loss of his leg had caused his early discharge with
a small pension of five pounds a year and now he was faced with thinking
about his only son; a boy of only eleven years; wanting to join the army of
His Majesty King George the 3rd as a drummer boy.

Cromwell knew the life expectancy of a drummer boy was often measured in
months rather than years and the thought of his only boy being out in front
and facing the guns of His Majesties enemies around the world did not give
him any cause for joy.

Cromwell looked at the dingy room they called home; they had been living
from hand to mouth ever since his return from service five years ago. The
times had been hard for all of them but more so for the young boy. He had
no chance of an education and very little prospects for a good job in trade
or any other of the jobs available to the poor.

In Cromwell's mind were the flashes of the battles he had fought in. The
noise, smoke and the heavy smell of gun powder and blood that always hung
over a battle field. It was not what he had wanted for his only son and the
pay for a drummer boy was; at best, miniscule, a mere one shilling a month;
that is if he managed to stay alive long enough to collect it.

Cromwell knew he really had little choice; his pension was barely keeping
the small family together and; as the boy grew, there would be more
temptations that the boy would not be able to resist; at least, as a former
soldier of the 33rd Yorkshire Regiment he would be able to get the boy into
the service before another who had no affiliation to the Regiment would be
accepted.

Cromwell looked at the skinny boy sitting before him; the boy just might
have a chance at something better where as if he kept him home there was
very little chance of anything.

A tear slipped from his eye as he turned to look at Thomas; he also saw his
wife standing at the stove with her hands clenched in fear as she waited
for his answer.

Cromwell already had seen the rumblings of another war coming; it seemed
that every other month the Empire was embroiled in a far off war. The
thought of his little boy being involved served only to bring back the
memories he had tried hard to suppress; unfortunately he could see no other
way for the boy to get out of the slums and destitution they now lived in.

Cromwell looked down at his only son; the boy was barely eleven years old
and was nothing more than skin and bones; the rags he wore were the only
ones he had. Tears welled up once again as he tried to remember what he
really wanted for his son before he was hit by the grape shot and all his
dreams disappeared in the sudden pain and blood which caused his present
situation.

"Ask your mother to get some hot water on for a bath; tomorrow I'll take
you to the Headquarters of the Regiment. At least this way I know you will
be joining in a better situation than normal. I still have friends serving
and they will watch over you as best they can."

Cromwell turned back to his chair and sat down; the sound of light sobbing
coming from his wife were ignored; the boy now had to make his own way;
there was little else Cromwell could do for his boy.

The next morning was no better than Cromwell's heart as he led the way to
the barracks of the 33rd Yorkshire Regiment. It was raining in a light
drizzle and there was a nip in the air that boded winter not far off.

As Cromwell limped towards the large wooden gates of the barracks; he laid
his hand on Thomas's shoulder; this could very well be the last time he
would see his son in this life but now, at least he would have a small
chance to make something of himself; he had precious little if he stayed in
the slums of Limehouse.

The two guards at the gate watched as the man limped towards them with a
small thin boy under his hand. The corporal looked closer then shouldered
his musket as he told the other guard to stand down.

"Private Marking; I see they couldn't kill you; who've you got there; more
cannon fodder?"

"Creasy? I see you made Corporal."

"Aye, mostly thanks to what you did that day. Now who is this?"

"This is my son; he wants to enlist as a volunteer drummer boy."

"Volunteer, huh; have you told him about what it means?"

"No Corporal; that's the army's job; all I ask is for someone to watch over
him. He's my only son."

The Corporal turned to the other guard who looked to be no older than
seventeen and new to the army.

"Perkins, go and tell the Sergeant we have a volunteer at the gate and he's
the son of one of ours."

Perkins lifted his musket and double timed away while the Corporal looked
over Thomas with interest.

"So boy; you want to be a drummer boy. Can you beat a drum?"

"No Sir."

"First lesson boy; I'm a Corporal; only Officers are Sir's. Now why do you
want to be a drummer boy?"

"It's all I can do to help my family...Corporal."

"Well boy; you have to volunteer for seven years. You will get a shilling a
month while training and for your first year. If you're still alive at the
end of the first year then you will get two shillings and sixpence a
month. You can ask the paymaster to send some of your wages to your dad if
you want to."

"Yes Corporal."

"Good, now here comes the Sergeant; remember, no Sir just Sergeant, ok?"

"Yes Corporal."

Thomas raised his head as he heard heavy footsteps coming from inside the
barracks. Looking up he saw a huge man striding towards where he and his
father stood with the Corporal.

Beside the smaller frame of Perkins, the Sergeant looked huge and
forbidding; his shoulders were broad and his face carried a long scar down
the left side; the thick mutton chop whiskers made him look wise but also
hard. The Sergeant's uniform was perfectly fitted and his black boots with
the white spats shone in the morning light.

The bright red coat and white trousers with the knee length white spats
were also immaculate and his brass buttons and fittings were shining bright
enough to be seen at night.

The Sergeant carried a thick cane under his left arm and his shako was
polished with the badge also bright and shiny; he made a formidable figure
as he came to a halt before Thomas and his father.

"So I see you are still alive Private Marking." He said in a deep voice
that sounded like a bass drum to Thomas's ears. "I thought you would be
dead before they got you home. Now who have we here then?"

"This is my only son Thomas; he wants to volunteer as a drummer boy."

"Volunteer; well then we had better get his mark before he changes his
mind; it's not often we see volunteers these days. Right then Private
Marking; bring your son and come along with me; there is a reward for
volunteers these days; half will go to you as his father and the other half
will go towards his kit and drum."

The Sergeant turned around and led Thomas and his father into the barracks
where they were sat at a rough and well worn desk to sign the
papers. Thomas was lucky that his father had taught him how to sign his
name and read from the book of regulations; he could also do his sums right
up to fifty; it was the only education he had gotten.

When it was his turn; Thomas carefully took the quill and slowly signed his
name as perfectly as he could; he wanted his father to be proud of him.

After the signing; the Sergeant called for the Private that had met them at
the gate. While they were waiting, the Sergeant opened a drawer in the desk
and took out two gold coins; one he gave to his father and the other he put
inside the book that Thomas had just signed.

"There we are Private Marking; the signing reward is two golden guineas;
one for you as the father of a volunteer to make up for the loss of a son
to the Regiment and the other will go to his costs of outfitting. Thank you
for your son and your previous service; you were a damn good soldier
Private Marking and your name will not be forgotten by many of us for your
sacrifice that day; I can only hope your son will do as well."

Thomas was given a minute with his father while the Sergeant talked to
Perkins. Once the final goodbyes were said; Thomas watched as his father
straightened up as much as his single leg would allow and; without looking
back, left Thomas in the hands of his old Regiment; Thomas did not know if
it would be the last time he ever saw his father.

The Sergeant stood up and looked down at Thomas.

"Right lad, stand up over there and let me get a look at ye."

Thomas quickly jumped to his feet and stood where he was told while the
Sergeant stepped closer. Using the thick cane, the Sergeant lifted his head
up and looked closer.

"Right lad; you're in the army now; let's see you straighten up; heels
together; shoulders back; hands by your sides and keep your head up."

Thomas waited as the Sergeant walked around him; occasionally he would
touch Thomas in an effort to make adjustments to his stance. Once the
Sergeant seemed satisfied; he turned towards the door. The sound that came
from the Sergeant almost made Thomas jump a foot in the air; he had never
heard a voice so strong; people must have heard the large man all over
London.

"PERKINS; GET YOUR MISBEGOTTEN ASS IN HERE NOW; YOU LAZY SON OF A
BILLINGSGATE FISHMONGER'S WIFE."

Thomas heard the fast running footsteps of the Private he had seen at the
gate; seconds later a panting Perkins appeared at the doorway; the Sergeant
lowered his voice but the tenor of command never left it as he began to
give orders.

"Perkins, take this boy to the Quartermaster and get him kitted. Tell the
Quartermaster to make sure he has the silver braid of a volunteer; I don't
want him mistaken for one of those pressed scum. Next get him to the
butchers at the infirmary just to make sure he aint got two left feet. Once
that's done get over to the barber; that haystack has got to go; make sure
you show him how to tie his cue. When that's all done, take him to the
drummers barracks and get him set up; he's a volunteer so make sure he has
a single cot and not one of the bunks those other scum use. Perkins; as of
this minute you are the Cadre for the drummer boys. Move your kit to their
barracks and take the single room; if they fail, you will get the lash so
make sure you get it right. I don't want no trouble from them or it's your
ass on the wheel. Next take him to the Drum Major for his drum kit. Now
move it private; this is the 33rd we don't got all day."

"Yes Sergeant; come on boy; we got lot's to do."

Thomas looked once more at the forbidding figure of the Sergeant before he
quickly followed the young Private out the doorway; he was in the army now
and his life was going to change from this moment on.

At the Quartermasters store; Thomas could not believe the amount of kit he
was given although a small round repair on the red jacket gave him
pause. The list of kit seemed endless as the Quartermaster; a large thick
man; continued to repeat the name of each piece as he took it from the many
shelves that lined the large storeroom.

Each item was written in a book piece by piece for which Thomas had to sign
for; even the silver buttons; all 36 of them, were itemised as was the
silver braid on his shako along with the regimental badge. The last item
was a round snare drum with all its white piping and two pairs of drum
sticks.

Thomas could not believe that he also had to carry his own sewing kit and
all the cleaning supplies for his white webbing and a tin of dubbing for
his boots and spats; everything needed a good airing but he was not given
the time to think more as a heavy canvas bag was tossed onto the table for
him to pack his kit in.

Next came the doctors at the infirmary; it was here that he was again told
he was too thin and needed to eat and fatten up to gain strength; he was
already tired from carrying so much kit and it had only been minutes since
leaving the Quartermasters store.

The medical exam was perfunctory at best and took less than two minutes;
next was the barber where his dark hair was quickly; and a little roughly;
trimmed short around the sides and top but at the back was left long enough
for a small cue to be formed and tied off with a black ribbon.

Once his hair was cut and trimmed; Perkins led Thomas to the small barracks
hut where the other drummer boys slept; at the moment they were all away
with practice by the Drum Major and so Thomas had plenty of time to pack
his kit and see to his small single cot.

Perkins stood beside him and helped instruct Thomas on all he needed to
know about bed making army style; preparing his kit and how to polish all
the silver buttons. The one thing Thomas did not like but had little choice
in was the wearing of the thick leather choker.

It was worn around his neck and was so stiff it would keep his head up at
all times; Perkins showed him how to tie the cravat so it would not rub on
his neck but it did not protect his chin from the course leather; within
hours he was to have the first signs of an open wound under his chin. In
time it would become a scar which was a sign of all soldiers of the King.

His new drum was heavier than he thought it would be and the webbing to
hold it needed a lot of work to bring it up to the standard that would be
needed.

It took Thomas; under the sharp eye of the young Perkins; to finish
everything and get dressed in his uniform for the first time. Thomas found
the boots hard to wear after spending most of his life without even a pair
of old shoes to wear. The thin cotton hose were not enough to make the
rough new boots comfortable and he felt as though his feet had just gained
ten pounds.

Once all was done to Perkins satisfaction; Thomas was taken outside to be
taught how to march; what the commands were and how to turn about while
marching; it was a long two hours as he learned to march back and forth.

At last the call to lunch was heralded by the trumpeter; Perkins told
Thomas to get his mess kit; a metal plate, spoon and metal cup and follow
him to the Private's mess hall. Once in the hall, Thomas was taken to the
long table that had all the food; behind the table stood other soldiers
with large wooden spoons in their hands to ladle out what was in the metal
trays.

While the food would not have looked appetising to some; for Thomas it was
almost a veritable feast; thick horse meat stew, mounds of fresh cooked
bread and even large hot potatoes. Thomas's cup was filled with a hot
beverage that he had never seen before.

Careful not to spill any of the feast; Thomas followed Perkins to a table
that held eleven other boys. The youngest was about the same age as Thomas
and the oldest was a rough and angry looking boy of about fourteen. All of
the other boys glared at Thomas as they noticed the silver braid on his
sleeve that marked him as a volunteer; their sleeves were bare except for
the normal braid; his extra single band of silver had already marked him as
different.

Thomas could now feel the weight of his new uniform; the two hours of
marching back and forth had left him, not only breathless but hot and
uncomfortable; the heavy choker had already rubbed his chin raw but it
would not stop him from finishing the marvellous feast he now placed on the
table; as far away from the other boys as the table would allow him.

The only thing that brought a look of wonder to the eyes of the other boys,
was the fact that Perkins took the seat at the head of the table; it was
the first time since the other boys had arrived at the barracks; that one
of the soldiers had sat at their table; it caused an immediate silence from
the others.

Thomas ate ravenously as his small thin body called for sustenance after
his first session of drill; Perkins had told him that after lunch he would
join the others to learn the drum.

Perkins had told Thomas that from now on he would be up at dawn; make his
bed up and then be at work all day either at drill or drumming; when the
night came he was to prepare his kit for inspections and to make his bed
down; any time left after that before lights out would be spent with his
drum sticks on practice at the wooden table in the barracks.

On that first night, Thomas could feel the anger directed at him from most
of the other boys; the worst was the older boy whom he found out very
quickly, was called Sutton; first names were not used by anyone. Added to
the fact he was the new boy was the fact he was marked as a volunteer. The
other boys were called Drummer so and so whereas Thomas was called
Volunteer Marking; the distinction of his position was looked upon by the
real soldiers as being above the other boys that had been press ganged into
the service; mostly by the courts; it was either that, jail or hanging for
the other boys.

Thomas; while small and thin was no push over by any boy; while he
preferred to go along in his own way; when it finally came to a show down
with the ever angry Sutton; Thomas did not back down. While Sutton was
older and larger and he did beat Thomas behind the barracks one night;
Thomas did get in a good lick and gave the larger boy a bloody nose before
being knocked to the ground for the last time.

The uproar at the back of the barracks by the other boys had brought out
Perkins; he wasted no time in cuffing Sutton around the ears and putting
the boy on the ground with a wild roundhouse. Unfortunately for them all,
the Regimental Sergeant Major was passing the barracks at the same time; in
the darkness no one saw him until it was too late.

"Private Perkins. What in the blue blazes is going on here; you know the
regulations on fighting in barracks."

"Sergeant Major, I was breaking up a dispute between drummer boys."

"Get those scum on their feet Private. Sergeant of the guard, front and
centre at the drummer barracks." The Sergeant major bellowed loudly; Thomas
was sure the man's voice would be heard in the deepest pit of hell as it
echoed through the barracks houses.

A minute later and the sergeant of the guard along with four soldiers
arrived armed with their muskets and slightly puffing.

"Sergeant Major?"

"Sergeant, hold those two scum until I see what's going on here."

"Sergeant Major."

Thomas and Sutton were quickly grabbed by two of the soldiers and held
tightly; the Sergeant Major walked over to them and looked at the two
fighters; one glance at the extra silver stripe on Thomas arm and the
Sergeant Major stepped back with a glare in his eye.

"Perkins, who's this whelp?"

"Volunteer Marking, Sergeant Major."

"Marking! You related to Private Cromwell Marking boy?"

"Yes Sergeant Major; he's my father, Sergeant Major."

"Then I hope you are half the man he was, boy. Now what goes on here;
Perkins?"

"Drummer Sutton has had it in for Volunteer Marking since he arrived
Sergeant Major; this is the result."

"Drummer Sutton, get your ass over here scum."

Sutton stepped forward and stood as straight as he could; Thomas could see
in the other boy's eyes that he knew he was in deep shit.

The Sergeant Major did not waste any time as he tore into the other boy
with such venom Thomas though the boy would die on the spot.

"What gives you the right to bully the son of a hero, you little toe rag
scum. In all the days you have left on God's earth you will never measure
up to this boy you little deviate bastard. You are in the 33rd not on some
back street selling your ass to sailors. Sergeant of the guard; get this
low life scum out of my sight. At officer's parade in the morning you will
present this press gang scum for twenty strokes; make sure he's not
late. Now get this thing out of my sight."

The sergeant of the guard quickly grabbed Sutton roughly by the scruff of
the neck and pulled him away while the Sergeant Major turned to the other
boys who had been watching the fight.

Thomas by now was having trouble seeing clearly from his left eye as it
swelled and closed; his jaw was also sore from the heavy punch that had
felled him.

"Perkins, get Marking to the butchers and get him fixed up; you other
gawkers can go and get dressed in full kit including your packs and drums;
you have five minutes to be back here or you join Sutton tomorrow morning;
MOVE."

Thomas was soon in the infirmary. Even in there he could hear the
stentorian voice of the Sergeant Major as he roared at the ten boys on the
parade ground which was lit by the many torches and lights from the
soldiers barracks nearby; it did not take long for the off duty soldiers to
gather around the parade ground with their pipes to smoke and make ribald
comments on the boy's abilities at marching in formation; the Sergeant
Major had no intention of going lightly on them.

As Thomas was led back to the barracks by Perkins; he heard the Sergeant
Major call for ten muskets. The Brown Bess musket weighed about 15 pounds;
a grown man would soon tire marching around the square with one so the boys
were in for a hard time and, added to that the boys still had to carry and
march with their drums at their sides.

Inside the barracks, Perkins helped Thomas to his cot; as he sat down he
asked Perkins.

"Mister Perkins; why do they say my dad was a hero?"

"Did he never tell you lad?"

"No mister Perkins; he would never talk about his service."

"Well I was not there lad, if you want to know I can ask Corporal Creasy to
tell you; he was there with your Da; in fact only him and your Da lived to
walk away from it; do you want me to ask him?"

"Yes please mister Perkins; if it were not too much trouble."

"You stay here lad; I'll go look for the Corporal."

It was not long after when Thomas heard the heavy tread of someone coming
into the barracks. As Corporal Creasy stepped into the barracks room,
Thomas jumped to his feet and stood at attention as was required when any
adult entered their small domain.

"Sit down lad; you're not on parade now. So Private Perkins tells me you
want to know about your dad?"

After two weeks in His Majesties Army, Thomas now knew all the right ranks
and replies to questions.

"Yes Corporal; that is if it aint too much trouble Corporal."

"No trouble lad; you sit down there and let me tell you about your dad; you
should be right proud of him lad; he was one soldier in a thousand was your
dad."

Creasy paused for a moment as he looked back the last five years to the
battle he had fought side by side with Cromwell Marking and how to relate
it to his young son.

"Now first tell me what your first name is lad?"

"Thomas, Corporal."

"Right young Tom, well we was in a far off place called Assaye out in the
India country. We was part of the army under the East India Company. Now
our Colonel; Arthur Wellesley was told to take the place at all costs;
course the Colonel is now Lieutenant General Sir Arthur Wellesley; some say
he may make Duke yet; but enough of that; we's best get back to your dad."

Creasy paused again to get his thoughts straight.

"It was the 23rd of September and we was moving into position at the base
of the rise and getting ourselves ready for the charge at the heathen. For
some reason, no one had taken any notice of a small group of heathen above
us. Now your dad; he was one of those men who could think for himself; not
what most Officers liked in a Private but, that was the way about him."

Another pause as Creasy smiled at some hidden thought.

"Now above us the heathen suddenly opened fire with small hand cannon
filled with grape; now if you never seen what grape will do to a man then
you are real lucky. The grape started to tear us apart and we aint even at
the battle yet. Your dad saw what was going on and; being as how our
Officer was one of the first to be hit as well as both Sergeants; we had no
one to give us orders. Now your dad did not wait for orders; calling six of
the closest men to him; which included your's truly; he up and charged
straight up that hill as though he was made from steel. Well, when we got
among them we gave them good old British steel and shot. Once the last
heathen fell, your dad looks over the edge of the hill and see's more of
the heathen coming to retake the hill. Well I can tell you youngun; your
dad was not going to have that after all we did to take it."

Creasy looked at the boy in front of him.

"I truly hope you are even half the man your dad was lad. Well now where
was I? Well he sees more heathen coming but by now there are only four of
us left standing; the other two being cut down by heathen swords in the
first attack. Well your dad called us to stand firm and form a rank. Once
we was formed up he started to give orders for volley fire. Below us the
others was trying to make sense of all about them; just then some other
Officer turns up and sees your dad and us standing up there alone and
firing as fast as we can load our muskets. Well now we was too busy trying
to stop the reinforcements to watch what was going on below us."

Another pause while Creasy filled his clay pipe and lit the tobacco.

"Now where was I, right; so here we was, all four of us looking down at the
hordes of wild Heathen charging fearlessly up at us; as fast as we shot
them new ones would appear; it was not long before they was among us and we
was back to fighting hand to hand with anything we could use; right vicious
it was and we killed many of them. It was not long before just me and your
dad was the last ones standing; while we was both injured, we stood back to
back; your dad would not back away. Finally the new officer below got the
men sorted and they came to our aid just as I was knocked off me feet and
stabbed by a sword in the leg; as the heathen ran away from our men's
muskets and bayonets; one of them damn heathen lifts up a hand cannon and
fires; caught your dad right in the leg; near blew it off at the knee; last
I saw was your dad flying over the edge of the hill before I passed out. I
woke up in the infirmary two days later and never saw your dad again until
he brought you to the gate two week ago. Thought he was dead we all
did. Your dad saved mayhap a hundred men that day by his fast actions. It's
only us old soldiers really know what he did; the Officers thought he was
dead and so never called for medals or promotion for him; had it not been
for your dad I would still be a private; instead they gave me the rank and
medal that rightly belonged to him. Now you see my lad; why we hold him so
high like any hero; you should be right proud of your dad and try to live
up to his memory."

Thomas thought the Corporal was finished and he sighed as he took in all
that he had been told; he now looked at his dad in a completely new light;
as he thought about the story he had been told, he heard the Corporal start
again.

"You need to know; we was just a side issue in the overall battle; maybe a
small but important part but not the real issue. The army was only about
9500 men and about 17 cannon; they were facing over 50,000 heathen; some of
them were trained by European Officers and they had a hundred cannon
staring us in the eyes. At the end of the battle we had lost more than four
hundred men dead and over 1600 wounded but the heathen fared even
worse. Some say we killed over 6000 of them heathen and took all one
hundred cannon; it weren't the last battle but it took the wind from their
sails. Now what I'm going to say now is for your ears only; you keep your
trap shut and we be OK."

Thomas nodded that he could be trusted.

"Good lad, now it's come to my ears that we will be moving out soon for
places far away; you spend every minute you got to learn your drum so you
don't play the wrong beat for orders. The last thing I'm going to do for
you is something no officer should know about."

Thomas watched as the Corporal took a rolled cloth pouch from his jacket,
when the Corporal unrolled the pouch Thomas saw that it contained two small
pistols, a small dagger in a black leather sheath as well as a small powder
flask and small lead balls for the pistols.

"Now this here you tell no one about; when we go into battle you carry them
with you at all times. I'm going to show you how to load the pistols and
how to use the dirk. Now these small pistols we calls 'Peter Pistols' the
real name is "Pocket Pistols" the ball is small so you got to get close;
shoot a man in his baby factory and he won't be coming for you again. You
tuck them into your waist band under your jacket. Now then, the dirk is a
Scotsman's dagger; you put that into the top of your spats; keep it sharp
and clean. When you finish your duty each day, I want to meet you out back
of the barracks for practice with the pistols. This here flask is your
powder; keep it dry and look after the flints. Well my lad; that's all I
can do for now; learn your lessons well and watch your back."

The Corporal stood up leaving the cloth pouch for Thomas to put away; as a
last gesture, the Corporal gave Thomas a gentle rub on the head as he
looked down at him.

"You be careful lad; we all owe your dad a lot and don't want to have to
tell him you weren't coming home to him."

The Corporal turned and walked out of the barracks just as the ten boys
crawled inside to go to bed, none of them looked as though they would ever
make it to parade in the morning although they all knew they would have to
be there.

The next morning was dismal and overcast; the rain would not be far
away. After the Officers inspection the Sergeant Major called all ranks to
attention to witness punishment; the Officers stepped to the side of the
parade square as a cannon was rolled into the centre.

At the Sergeant Major's command; the small figure of Sutton was marched out
and to the cannon; beside him stood Corporal Creasy who had a long thin
cane in his hand.

"Tie the prisoner to the gun Corporal." Ordered the Sergeant Major.

Corporal Creasy pushed Sutton over the barrel of the cannon and tied his
hands to the wheel; next he tore the white cotton shirt from his back and
stood back to await orders.

"Drummer Sutton; you are sentenced to twenty strokes being the recommended
punishment for fighting in the barracks; the fact you chose to bully the
son of a hero of the Regiment only makes this matter worse. At the
completion of your punishment; you will approach Volunteer Marking and ask
his forgiveness; you will then be available to him for extra duty for a
period not exceeding one month. Is this clear Drummer Sutton."

The assembled troops could barely hear the boy as he said.

"Yes Sergeant Major."

"Failure to carry out the recommended sentence will result in further
punishment in a military facility for incorrigibles; do you understand
Drummer Sutton?"

"Yes Sergeant Major."

"You have been warned. Drummers, sound the beat for punishment; Corporal
Creasy; you will strike hard and true; twenty strokes to be counted
out. Begin punishment."

Thomas carried the drum beat with the others as the cane began to strike;
it took only two before Sutton was screaming with each new strike; by the
end of the twenty the boy was hoarse and his young body was shaking with
the pain and he was barely conscious as the Corporal untied his hands and
helped him to stand, although he was very shaky on his feet. The pain had
to be extreme as Thomas saw the fresh blood dripping down the boy's back.

Slowly and with the rags of his white shirt hanging around his waist;
Sutton made his way to stand in front of Thomas. Thomas could see how much
strength it took for the boy to stand at attention before him even though
Sutton still had anger in his eyes as he looked at the smaller boy before
him. Sutton's voice was unsteady and not much more than a whisper as he
spoke.

"Volunteer Marking; I am sorry for my actions; it will not happen again."

Thomas could see that he would have to keep an eye on the boy in the
future; the fire in Sutton's eyes said far more than his words. For the
first time in his life; Thomas knew he had made a deadly enemy and nothing
would stop Sutton from getting his revenge.

For the next three weeks, Thomas was kept busy; even after the normal hours
of training. Once dinner was finished; Sutton would present himself in
front of Thomas for orders; Perkins also kept a close eye on the offender
at all times. Thomas found that he could not order Sutton around; while the
other boy could have been made to clean and prepare Thomas kit; he refused
the help and let Sutton have his free time; much to the ire of Perkins but
there was little he could do if Thomas did not want to use the older
boy. Perkins thought that the ignominy of having to present himself every
night to the younger boy also served a purpose.

When his kit was ready, Thomas would meet Corporal Creasy at the back of
the barracks where he was instructed in loading and dry firing his pocket
pistols until he could load and fire both pistols in under 30 seconds.

At first Thomas found it difficult to hold the two pistols back to back by
the barrel so they could both be loaded at the same time; his smaller hands
made it harder until he was used to handling them. The dirk was another
matter, Corporal Creasy showed him how to sharpen and care for the small
dagger and then instructed him on how to use it to best effect on a bigger
opponent; at this stage the Corporal himself; the lessons with the dagger
did not go without a few bruises.

Thomas had now been a drummer boy for six weeks; he had worked hard both
during lessons and after hours with the private lessons of Corporal
Creasy. His days were now set in a routine that was becoming more familiar
and easier as the time passed. His problem with Sutton had not been
forgotten and so he kept his wits about him.

Finally, at the beginning of his seventh week of service; the order came
for the Regiment to make ready to move. Lieutenant General Wellesley had
been ordered to take the 33rd and a number of other Regiments under the 8th
Brigade to Portugal to attack and stop the French on the Iberian Peninsula.

Thomas could not say his travel on the Naval ship was a joy; from the
moment of embarkation until he set foot on Portuguese soil; Thomas was
wracked by sea sickness. Fortunately for Thomas so were most of the drummer
boys and so there was little disruption in the ranks.

It was early August when he finally put boots to soil and Lt General
Wellesley began his march towards Vimeiro where he planned to meet Marshal
Junot on the 21st of August in what was to become only one of many battles
of a long and bloody campaign.

Thomas was given the honour as drummer boy at the head of the 1st Company
of the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Regiment. They were not the only Regiment
in the force but the others did not concern Thomas; he was too busy with
his duties to watch others.

Thomas marched ahead of the Captain of the 1st Company who was flanked by
the standard bearers of the Regimental colours. Ahead of Thomas rode the
Senior Officers along with all their banners and flags flying high in the
hot sun drenched air of Portugal.

Thomas kept his beat for the march in time with all the others he could
hear following along behind; it gave his small heart a lift to hear the rat
ta tat of the drums as they set the pace; the excitement in the air was
almost palpable as the large force marched forward.

On the 17th of August; Thomas found himself and the others of the 33rd
bivouacked down on the plains near a place called Rolica; out in front of
them and in the distance; Thomas could see a massive army settled in; the
enemy was waiting for them.

The drummer boys were settling into the their small two man canvas tents;
as he eased his drum off, Thomas heard the now very familiar voice of
Corporal Creasy.

"Come with me lad."

Thomas followed the older man a short way from the other tents.

"Now lad, I want you to listen carefully. First thing in the morning you
make sure your pistols is ready; you gonna be way out in front when we's
start this here battle. Listen carefully for the order for drummers to go
to the rear; don't hesitate; get your ass behind the riflemen and keep your
eyes open and your head down."

Thomas nodded that he understood.

"Now when the shooting starts keep your ears open for orders and get them
drum beats right; you make a mistake and a lot of good men will not come
home. Now youngun, get your ass back to your tent and get some rest;
tomorrow is gonna be a bloody day; them Frenchies are a nasty bunch of
rogues."

The next morning dawned clear but all Thomas could see was the massed ranks
of enemy soldiers out on the plains; he did not think there were that many
soldiers in the whole world. The first pangs of fear began to work in his
belly; it was only the calming voice of the nearby Corporal Creasy that
kept him in his place.

Behind and above where he stood where all the Senior Officers and; off to
one side the colours and banners of the English army guarded by the special
Colour Guard.

The first sign of action was started by the heavy cannon of the French to
be quickly answered by the English, Spanish and Portuguese guns. Thomas
could only watch in fear and awe as the bombardment continued back and
forth. Great fountains of earth and rock were thrown into the air as well
as quite a few body parts of those further to the front.

After some time, the order was given for the massed ranks of riflemen to
advance towards the waiting enemy; the drummer boys keeping the cadence for
the march from the front of the massed ranks. They were within one hundred
paces of the enemy muskets when Thomas felt something whizz past his head;
suddenly the cry went up.

"Sharpshooters; drummers to the rear; present muskets."

Thomas took notice and retreated behind the massed ranks of red coats as
more and more shots could be heard behind him. Once behind the front lines
he turned back and continued with his cadence as he had been instructed to
do; the lines continued to move forward and right into the mayhem that was
modern war.

Whenever Thomas took time to look around, all he saw was the dead and
wounded as they fell screaming from terrible looking wounds. As he watched
he heard the sound of more cannon firing towards them; a sudden shout made
him duck his head even though, if it was his time it would not have saved
him.

"Canister."

Thomas knew the meaning of that word; it was one that was feared throughout
the army. Canister shot was similar to grape in that it cut down men over a
wide range; the wounds could be grievous.

Somewhere not far away, Thomas heard high pitched screams as another
canister shook above their heads; it was not the sound of a man's voice but
more that of a child; Thomas feared for his drummer friends.

The noise of the battle was soon joined by loud orders being barked out at
the infantry riflemen; volley fire drowned out the other sounds and the
heavy smoke now filled the air around him.

Suddenly; out of the mist of smoke, Thomas heard a familiar voice; it was
the Sergeant Major; his stentorian voice drowned out the other sounds of
battle.

"DRUMMERS TO THE COMMAND POINT"

Thomas looked around before turning and running up the rise towards where
all the Senior Officers stood watching and running the battle. Once he got
there he saw that there were only two other drummers there; a commanding
voice made him look up as he stepped up beside the other two boys; one of
which was showing a little blood from a nick on his cheek.

The voice belonged to none other than the Lt General Wellesley; he sat his
horse above the boys and his eyes looked them over like a hawk watching its
prey. Lt General Wellesley turned to a Junior Officer nearby.

"Captain Lewis; is this all there is left of our drummers?"

"Yes My Lord; four were lost to sharpshooters and the others to canister."

"Damn; well it will have to do. Lads, you will keep your place here; we
have lost our trumpeter so you will have to beat the orders as they are
passed to you. Stand your ground lads and don't move from this spot until I
tell you."

The three boys stiffened up as the last words were said; their duty now was
to relay orders by drum beat. Below them the battle was now in full rage;
the smoke and crash of cannon was only a small part of the carnage taking
place out on the plain.

Armies were coming together with bayonet and, in some cases; pistol, club
or short axe. Thomas could see it was a blood bath down below.

As orders were called to them; the boy's would beat out the required
cadence. At one time the ranks of red coats were being sorely pressed by
fresh French troops; at an order from above they sent out the order to form
squares; even in the heat of battle, Thomas could only marvel at the
precision of the troops manoeuvres as they formed in squares and began to
cut down the attackers with concentrated volley fire.

The next call was for the Hussars to charge the French guns on the far side
of the plain; while they were engaged the call for the Heavy Dragoons was
sent out to attack the left flank and ease the pressure on the troops.

Everything seemed chaotic to Thomas young eyes; his only impression of his
first battle was the thunder of cannon; a thick haze of gun smoke, the
screams of the wounded and dying and, over all that the yells and curses of
men fighting at close quarters.

Thomas took the chance to look up behind him where the Senior Officers were
talking and watching; it was right at that moment he saw something that
would change his life forever.

What Thomas saw made him react without thought; dropping his drum from his
hip; Thomas grabbed for one of his pistols as he took off running back up
the hill; he ignored the loud cry behind him as one of the Generals tried
to catch someone's attention.

"DAMN COWARD, someone get that boy; I will not have cowards running from
any battle."

Fortunately for Thomas; no one heard the old portly officer's words in the
heat and thunder of the battle. Thomas did not stop as he ran past the
Officers towards where the colours should have been.

Thomas had looked up just as a canister had exploded almost directly above
the Colour Guard; the only one to partially survive was the Colour Sergeant
but he was on his knees and trying to hold up the banner. The other thing
Thomas had seen was the small party of French soldiers running up the hill
out of sight of the Officers; they were intent on capturing the English
colours; a defeat that could not be tolerated.

Thomas made it to the side of the Colour Sergeant and knelt down; the
Sergeant was a mess of blood which was flowing from several wounds; the
flag staff had been broken but the Sergeant had rammed it tightly into the
ground to keep it upright.

As Thomas knelt, he felt a weak hand grasp his ankle and the wavering voice
of the Sergeant whispered to him.

"The colours boy; defend the colours with your life."

The Sergeant gave a loud rattling breath and collapsed onto the ground; his
hand slipping from Thomas ankle. A sound made Thomas lift his head and turn
around to face the off side slope; he was just in time to see the top of a
black shako tipped with blue and white feathers coming over the edge.

Taking care to do as he had been told by Corporal Creasy; Thomas lifted his
left arm up to his face; bending his elbow he then rested the pistol on his
forearm and took careful aim just as the head of a French soldier showed
above the crest.

For the small pocket pistol it was a long shot but Thomas took his time as
best he could; the crack of the pistol almost took Thomas by surprise but,
the small red hole in the throat of the soldier was even more so; the
soldier fell backwards and disappeared; unfortunately for Thomas it was
soon replaced by another attacker.

Thomas dropped his pistol and reached for the second one; the soldier was
now almost on top of him and Thomas did the only thing that would save him
as the large bore of the musket drew closer to him. Thomas went into a roll
and came up close and under the long barrel of the musket.

With a strength he did not know he possessed; Thomas rammed the small
pistol up between the soldiers legs and pulled the trigger; the resulting
scream gave him a little satisfaction but he had no time to contemplate his
victory; more men were coming over the top.

Thomas realised he was not going to walk away from this as he saw the men
and their long muskets and sharp bayonets pointed at him. Thomas was
suddenly taken over with fear as he saw his doom in the hard uncaring eyes
of the French soldiers.

In what seemed like days but was in fact only a split second; his short
life sped past his eyes and he wondered what his father would say at his
foolhardiness.

As a feeling of utter and total defeat tried to take him over; something
snapped inside Thomas. He had given his word to defend the colours; it was
his duty to hold them against all enemies and all odds. At that moment
something changed deep inside Thomas; even the uncaring and callous French
soldiers saw something change and it made them pause; it was enough for the
small wild and feral animal that had once been called Thomas.

With a primordial scream; Thomas stood up in front of the colours; he
reversed his small pistol to use as a club and reached down for his dirk;
without further thought and to the dismay of the Frenchmen; Thomas charged.

Clubbing, stabbing and screaming at the top of his lungs; Thomas was in
amongst the French soldiers before they even realised what he had done. At
a time like this; Thomas small stature proved to be something of an
advantage.

Ducking, rolling and jumping; Thomas tore into the soldiers with an abandon
that almost frightened them; his small dirk slashed into groins or thighs
and the pistol clubbed anything within reach whether it was a hand or
wrist, a foot or knee; he attacked it with a savagery way beyond human.

Thomas ignored the sudden pain in his shoulder as the dirk was ripped from
his hand being buried deeply into one of the soldier's stomachs.

Thomas rolled away from one of the soldiers as he tried to skewer the fast
moving boy; without another thought; and moving on pure instinct; Thomas
wrenched a bayonet from one of the dropped muskets and used that to slash
and stab at anyone that came close to where he stood before the still
standing colours.

Unknown to Thomas; one of the Officers had seen what was going on; with a
loud call to Lt General Wellesley, he pointed to the little drummer boy
fighting like someone possessed by the devil; The Lt General took one quick
glance and started yelling orders.

"Get men up to the colours; save that boy and the colours or by God I will
have someone's head."

Thomas did not know how long he had been fighting but there was something
possessing him and he had to defend the colours or die trying; if he was to
die this day he was not going to make it easy for anyone.

After what seemed an eternity; Thomas stood taller and looked into the eyes
of the last two soldiers; his wild eyed stare had even rattled these hard
bitten soldiers. Both soldiers took two steps back; they had had enough of
this wild animal before them.

Both Frenchmen quickly reloaded their muskets before the boy could take
advantage of the short pause and come for them. The fear they felt made
their hands shake just a little but it was enough to slow their reloading;
as they both lifted their muskets to their shoulders; a loudly yelling
troop of red coats came at them with bayonets lowered; the fear in the
men's eyes told their own story. Without firing a shot they turned and ran
as the ten red coats drew nearer.

Thomas could not make one soldier from the other and as the new troops
approached him he went after them; these were his colours to fight for and
belonged to one else; he was prepared to take on Bonaparte himself to
defend them.

No amount of cajoling could make Thomas stand down; his reason had shut
down in the heat and fear of his personal battle; the French bayonet was
coursing back and forth as his wild eyes watched the soldiers in front of
him.

A corporal stepped forward and tried to reason with the wild eyed boy but
to no avail; the boy was in the blood lust of battle; the troops stepped
back a few paces and sent word to the General that they could not get near
the boy without injuring him and he would not surrender the colours to
them.

Lt General Wellesley looked at the tableau around the colours as the
private related what was going on.

"Do you know who the boy is Private?"

"No Sir; but he's one of the drummer boys from the 33rd, Sir"

"Captain Lewis, get a rider to one of the NCO's of the 33rd; tell him we
have one of his boys up here and need his help to settle the boy before he
does any damage."

The Captain called for one of his riders and sent him off towards where the
33rd was fighting. The battle had now progressed into its final stages; it
had been a bloody and terrible fight but the superior tactics of the
English coalition were now taking their toll; the battle was swinging
quickly into the English favour.

As the battle below wound to its inevitable end; the Lt General turned back
to the captain.

"Tell me captain; why didn't those men just rush the boy; I mean, after all
he is only a lad."

"I think, Sir; it was a matter of respect and superstition; you know how
the rank and file can be on those issues."

"Yes, Quite; well where's this blasted NCO; I want that boy settled and my
colours back as soon as we can."

"I believe, Sir; that the means is approaching now."

The Lt General looked down the hill and saw the larger than life figure of
the Regimental Sergeant Major of the 33rd striding up the hill towards
them.

When the Sergeant Major was standing at attention in front of him;
Wellesley looked at the rugged man who still held a bloodied sword in one
hand.

"Sergeant Major; we have a job for you."

"Yes Sir; I am at your disposal."

"It seems one of your men is making a bit of a fuss; doesn't want to hand
our colours back; go up and see what you can do for us."

"One of my men? Yes Sir; I will put a stop to that nonsense right quick
Sir. Any idea who it is Sir?"

"We don't know Sergeant Major, but I would suggest you don't get within
reach of his pig sticker, so they tell me."

Much to the Sergeant Major's surprise; he was sure he could detect a hint
of laughter in the Officer's words.

"I will take care of it immediately, Sir."

The Sergeant Major saluted the Officers and turned towards the top of the
rise; before he could take a step he had to shake his head to make sure his
eyes were not deceiving him. At the top of the rise stood the small skinny
figure of Volunteer Marking; his uniform was torn and ragged and blood
covered him from head to foot.

In one hand the boy was holding a bloody pocket pistol and in the other a
blood covered French bayonet; he stood firmly in front of the colours
daring anyone to take them from him; even at this distance; the Sergeant
Major could see the wildness in the boys eyes.

As the Sergeant Major moved off up the rise; he sheathed his sword and
tried to work out how he was going to do this. He didn't want to hurt the
boy and he did not want to make a fuss while there were other troops
standing around; they had all kept a respectful distance from the young
boy; it was obvious they had no intention of hurting him.

As they watched the Sergeant Major march up the rise to where the colours
were being held; Wellesley turned once again to Captain Lewis.

"Do you know what we have here Captain?"

"No Sir."

"An opportunity Captain; an opportunity and a saving grace for
recruitment. This war is going to go on for a long time yet and we need men
willing to fight and not the usual press gang soldiers; that boy has given
us a chance if we are wise enough to take it."

"How would that be Sir?'

"Take a look behind us Captain; who do you think that man sitting on the
stool is?"

"Well Sir; I know he is the correspondent for the Times, but why?"

"What do you think he is doing Captain?"

"Reporting on the...oh yes, I see what you mean. What would you like me to
do, Sir?"

"I am going back to headquarters; by the time I get there I want you to
have Colonel Mathers from the quartermaster; Surgeon General Wright and
General Ackland from the 8th Brigade waiting for me."

"Yes Sir."

Captain Lewis turned his horse and rode away at a gallop while Wellesley
turned at a more leisurely pace and walked his horse slowly down to where
his headquarters were set up; he was followed by the other Officers as they
left the battle field. There was now only the cleaning up to do and most of
the French had retreated in disorder.

The Sergeant Major strode up to the group surrounding the smaller figure of
Marking; he thought there were two ways of handling this but which one
would be right; he decided on using the ingrained sense of obedience that
all soldiers were instilled with.

To his eyes, the Sergeant Major could see the boy was still wound up like a
spring; the wrong word could either send him into a catatonic state where
he may never come back from or, cause him to attack the nearest person with
full intent to kill him.

The Sergeant Major strode up to within three paces of Thomas; the boy was
still very obviously in fighting mode; the six dead and bloody bodies of
the French soldiers told him that much. Straightening himself up to his
fullest; the Sergeant Major let out with his usual parade ground bellow.

"VOLUNTEER MARKING, ATTENTION; SHOULDER ARMS AND REPORT."

Somehow the loud bellow of a very familiar voice got through to Thomas; the
order was clear and meaningful. Tucking the small bloody pistol in his
waistband; he lifted the hand holding the bayonet and rested the sharp
pointed weapon on his shoulder as though it was a musket as he snapped to
attention.

"Sergeant Major." The voice was strained and very boyish and a little
hoarse as he reported to his senior NCO. "The enemy attempted to take the
colours; it was my duty to defend the colours even at the cost of my
life. The enemy has been repelled and I stand guard on the colours;
Sergeant Major."

The Sergeant Major lowered his parade ground voice and gave the order to
Thomas in a more gentle voice.

"Volunteer Marking, you will uplift the colours and escort them to
headquarters and present them to Lt General Wellesley. These men will
accompany you as an honour guard; do you understand your orders Volunteer
Marking?"

"Yes Sergeant Major."

"Then do your duty lad."

Nobody said a word as they saw the tears running down the small drummer
boys face as he struggled to pull the well buried staff from the soft
ground. When he had the staff clear and in his hands and with tears of
relief still flowing down his young face, Thomas pushed the bloody bayonet
in beside his pistol and took the staff in both small hands.

Before Thomas could move away; one of the older soldiers came up to him and
gently smiled down at the tear stained face.

"I believe these belong to you lad."

The older soldier held out his other dirt and blood splattered pistol along
with his dirk which was also now covered in drying blood. Taking them from
the soldier; Thomas tucked them away and prepared to return the colours.

Holding it at the port; he began his long walk to the headquarters tents;
the ten red coats formed an honour guard on each side of him as he marched
with his head up and the tears still falling.



TBC.