winterbadger | the British Army engages in a little smash and grab

A much-delayed account of our most recent Sharpe Practice game:

"Those dashed farmers are up to mischief!" General Sir Hilary Poodlesqueezer thumped the table with fury. "Our exploring officers tell us that the disaffected party have collected another supply of arms in the village of Lowburn, Colonel, and I want you to go root it out!" The general's face was as red as his coat, and the vein in his temple was throbbing dangerously. "The rebel faction plans to threaten our garrison here in Blue Hill--can you imagine anything more ridiculous? But I want those arms seized, so as to show them that there's nothing we don't know about and that no matter where they hide their disloyalty, we will come quash it!"

As Sir Hilary (a mountain of a man) flopped back in the heavy chair and fanned his sweating face with a copy of The Tatler (Colonial Edition), Lt. Col. Henry Blaydon smiled suavely. "Of course, Sir Hilary. I will make sure that your second term as commander in chief is crowned by unquestioned glory." Anything to make the fat pig calm down and stop blustering, "Races" Blaydon thought. If Sir Hilary died of apoplexy, they would get a new CinC from London, and it could be anyone. It *might* be someoen who would look a little too closely into certain matters that Blaydon would like kept quiet (like where the rebels got their *very* expensive powder and shot, and how the Blankshires Regiment could possibly go through so much live ammunition in practicing their marksmanship).

The next morning, Colonel Blaydon reined in his horse and watched in pleasure as the ranks of red-clad soldiers marched past him. He enjoyed command, even of a small expeditionary force like this. And he had made sure to speak to the general's secretary, so that the orders he finally received put an emphasis on bringing back the rebel supplies, rather than simply destroying them. Back in the warehouses on Long Wharf, the cases of musket cartridges could be sold yet another time...

Major Erskine Armstrong, the commander of the column's advanced guard, was far ahead. "Strong Arm", as he was known by his men, believed in scouting, and he didn't leave it to his captains to send him word of what they found. A good distance before the winding and rutted New England road reached the village of Lowburn, he had deployed his men. He commanded a platoon of Loyalists who knew the area well (most had lived here before rebel 'Sons of Liberty' had killed their livestock, threatened their families, and burned their barns) and a platoon of the finest light infantry in the British Army. Lt. Peters of the Loyalists was a keen fellow, and Capt. Hammet of the Lights was a quick-witted, perceptive officer.

The advanced guard approached the village quietly. A flock of crows rose out of the wood near the river crossing, and cows lowed in a far field. It looked quiet. Armstrong pondered. Could he chance a sudden raid? He nodded quietly to himself. "Captain Hammet!" he called, briskly, "I think we have surprised the rebels. Move in quickly and secure the place. Lt. Peters, follow him with your men and begin searching the houses. Both of you, keep an eye open for trouble."

The redcoats poured over the ford and into the town like a swarm of single-minded bees, the green coats of the Tory soldiers following them. The lights formed a skirmish line in the center of the hamlet, while their American allies ransacked the first building, a posting inn. In surprisingly little time, a messenger came up to the major where he sat on his horse, sweeping the woods and field with his spyglass "Lt. Peters' compliments, your honour, and he's found a cellar all loaded with powder and shot, along with cases of muskets. Them rebs must ha' been raiding King's ships--all them muskets is marked 'Tower'--clear as crows in a churchyard!"

"Have him hie them out and prepare to retire! We have carried out the mission before the main body have even come up!" This was easy, though Armstrong, as he watched the runner return to the White Hart Inn--too easy.

But what was that? As he steadied his telescope on a glint in the woods beyond the bend in the river, the glass's field of view was filled with smoke. Lowering the instrument, he saw that the tree line had erupted in fire--the hidden rebels had attempted to ambush Hammet and the lights!

The fire seemed to have done little damage, however. Hammet was striding up and down behind his troops, seeing to their loading as they returned fire. He looked over to the inn; none of the boxes had been carried out! What were they doing? He kicked his charger, Nettles, in the ribs and trotted into the town.

"What are you at, lieutenant?" he cried. Peters looked up from a trail of powder, "Why, sir, preparing to fire the inn and destroy the weapons! I heard firing and assumed time was of the essence, given the shooting."

"Good god, no, man!" cried the major, slightly exasperated. "Have them all carried up. We are under orders to do no civil damage, and Colonel Blaydon wants the arms brought back to Blue Hill. We are in no danger from these farmers."

Events were to make the major rue these words. No sooner had he turned away from the inn to watch the firefight when he say Captain Hammet stagger and fall. And then of a moment, the fields and forests began to swarm like a hive.

One group of figures running up the south road was, when viewed through his glass, but a bunch of ragged boys with wooden rods, who ran off into the fields when a few light infantrymen fired a shot or two towards them. But north of the village a number of shifting shadows among the hedgerows took more substantial shape and revealed themselves as two groups of rebel militia, rushing towards the inn. Turning back to survey the firefight, Armstrong saw several of the lights assembling a crude stretcher for their captain, a bad sign. And then, beyond them, more rebels burst from the woods to the west of the village's newly ploughed fields. They had gone from no enemy to many in no time.

As the heavy-laden Loyalists began splashing across the stream, the rebel militiamen to the north, as if driven by demons (perhaps the demons of all the Spanish silver dollars they had paid for the arms), rushed onwards and fired several volleys into the ranks of green. Peters fell, and when Armstrong arrived to assess the situation, it was apparent that the lad was badly hurt. The gallant American tried to rise, his hand pressing a bloody wad of bandages to his side, but then he collapsed into the arms of his men. Several of the Loyalist other ranks, too, were dead and wounded, and carrying the arms away would now be difficult for the small force of the avant garde. Armstrong cursed.

"Problems, majorrrr?" Looking up, he saw the somewhat self-satisfied smirk of Capt. Jarvis (who the major detested heartily and called "Captain Beefneck" to himself), the commander of the column's grenadier detachment. "It seems you have found a rrrrather nasty nest of hornets, sirrrr," went on the tiresome Scotsman. "Have no fearrrr, we Scots will pull the English chestnuts out of the firrrre...again! YOU MEN, DOUBLE UP! STACK THOSE CASES OF ARMS AND PREPARE A CHARGE!" A rush of bearskin caps and broad shoulders responded to his bellowed order.

"Captain, Colonel Blaydon definitely said we should preserve the arms..."

"Och, we've no time to carry them away NOW, sirrr," the odious captain retorted. "and the colonel is aff over there looking after the placement of the grand wee gun he's brought with him."

Sure enough, "Races" was supervising the Royal Artillerists who were rolling a three-pounder into position overlooking the southern arm of the river. He trotted towards the village, and Armstrong rode towards him, waving his hat. The elderly colonel seemed somewhat confused by this action and reined in, looking puzzled. Armstrong urged Nettles to a trot, but before he could reach his commander and remonstrate over the grenadiers' action, a huge explosion deafened him (and everyone else in the vicinity)

Colonel Blaydon's face immediately grew dark and rancorous, and nothing Armstrong could say seemed sufficient explanation. The column's senior leader turned back to the supporting troops, still moving toward the town, leaving Armstrong to gaze dully at the gunner who were loading their piece with alacrity.

The Loyalists were falling back rapidly in good order, followed by the light infantry, who retired fighting and carrying their officer carefully between two men. Every so often the platoon stopped and delivered another volley towards the approaching rebels. The grenadiers were firing towards the militia approaching from the north and seemed to have driven them off.

Armstrong looked across the river and spotted not one but two clouds of blue and brown coats racing towards him. Suddenly realising that only he and the gun were defending the river bank, he superintended the laying and firing of the piece, which blew several great holes in the Americans' units, making them slow and, apparently, reconsider their temerity.

The rebels in the town were getting their own back on the advanced guard, however. When the major looked towards the ford, he saw it littered with bodies in red. Most of the lights had been cut down by a vicious concentrated fire, and the last few, still carrying their gallant commander, were running back through the ranks of the main force, following the swiftly dwindling green coats of the Tories.

The grenadiers, as imperturbably as if they were on parade in Devon, marched back to the east bank of the river. About to tell the bombardier in charge of the gun to withdraw, Armstrong noticed the man leaning rather too casually on the carriage. He prodded the man with his boot, only to see him slump to the ground! Distracted by the rattle of musketry and still deafened by the explosion, the infantry officer had failed to perceive that the rebel muskets had reduced the functional complement of the artillery down to one--himself! And a band of the bally blighters was about to seize the cannon--and him!

Armstrong swiftly assessed whether he would be able to draw off the gun alone, with Nettles pulling like a drayhorse. Deciding he could not, he turned and galloped for the safety of the redcoat ranks. He gathered up the nearest fresh unit (a group of Scottish Highlanders) and turned back to retrieve the three-pounder. The Massachusetts men who had overrun it were easily chased away by the kilt-clad soldiers; perhaps the horrific sound of their bagpipes was enough to do the job!

The Americans halted their pursuit, searching disconsolately through the smoking rubble of the White Hart Inn, hoping to find some remnant of their cache of arms (or at least an unbreached barrel of rum). The British marched back to Blue Hill, the soldiers bloodied but satisfied that they had accomplished the mission they had been sent out to achieve. Their officers were less happy. Blaydon fumed that the arms had not be retrieved. Armstrong pondered disconsolately the loss of so many of his command. Hammet and Peters groaned with the pain of their wounds. Only Captain Jarvis of the grenadiers and Lieutenant Cameron of the Highlanders seemed pleased, a satisfaction that sat ill with their English counterparts. They would be unbearable at the whist table tonight...