A Sketch of Military Life.
by Timothy Clodpole.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.2 #44 (30 Oct 1847).
The Town of Chatham, in Kent, is one of the greatest military depots of the kingdom, from whence the different regiments on foreign service are recruited; the places of those who have fallen victims to disease, intemperance, and the foeman's sword, are supplied by fresh human beings, in their turns to suffer, and, most likely, to perish.
To this, "manufactory of the raw material," as it has been facetiously denominated,—this place of preparation for the "animals" destined to slaughter—this workshop where the "mechanics" intended for the business of destruction are drilled and made perfect, parties of fine, active young men, varying in number from eight or ten, to fifty or sixty, are daily arriving from the different parts of the country. The traffic in human souls goes on briskly, and it is no uncommon sight, especially when Death has been reaping plentiful harvests on the colonial battle-fields, or the pestilential fevers of foreign climes have made greater demands than usual on the troops exposed to their baleful influence, to behold three or four such parties of recruits enter the town in the course of a single day, and often have I paused with a mournful interest to notice the manners and appearance of many of these individuals, who have sold themselves, body and soul, to a service, in most cases as destructive to the one as the other. Here, with ragged habiliments, and a brimless hat set jauntily on one side of his head, and countenance flushed and swollen with the unmistakeabie signs of intemperance, swaggers along the undutiful son, the false lover, the frequenter of the skittle-ground, and the tap-room, young in years, but old in vice, and debauchery: there, with dejected air, and downcast looks, as though ashamed of his company, walks one, whose threadbare, yet decent, clothing, and pinched-up features tell a tale of poverty and suffering, of disappointment and sorrow. An air of recklessness and profligacy, however, distinguish by far the larger portion of these aspirants to military glory, most of whom are youths, deluded by the tinsel trappings of the recruiting sergeant, and his lying tales of—
"Lots of pay, and quick promotion,
And a soldier's merry life."
But few of them have reached the age at which the law declares a man capable of judging and acting for himself, and yet here they are, bound, or about to be bound, by an oath, taken, in most cases, under the influence of mistaken impressions, to a life-long servitude of toil, and privation, and hardship—a trade of butchery and death. Life-long is the term here used, because it is so in effect, for although the regulations say that the man may claim his discharge at the end of twelve years, yet it is with the proviso that the exigencies of the service no longer require him, and after that period, if he should survive, it is with enfeebled constitution, and habits which unfit him for useful occupation, or social and domestic duties and enjoyments[1].
Let us now trace the history of one of these deluded youths, passing, as they suppose, along the road which leads to fame and fortune. See where he walks, stepping proudly to the fancied measure of a triumphal march, with the parti-coloured ribbons streaming from his hat. His flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes, tell of the excitement within, which makes his heart swell, and his pulse beat more quickly than is their wont. He burns to enact the hero, and do some deed of desperate valour, which shall entitle him to the gratitude of his countrymen, and that high position in the army, which the wily sergeant has assured him he will one day attain. Now he has health, and strength, and vigour of mind and body, his hopes are high, his resolves great, his anticipations bright and dazzling! By and by we shall see the reverse of this picture: here we have THE RECRUIT, fresh from the home of his childhood, and the watchful care of his parents, who endeavoured to train him up to a life of piety and virtue, and who, while wondering at his prolonged absence from their humble roof, whence he had gone to the neighbouring market town, little thought of the compact into which he had been entrapped, to "serve his king and country," and of the heavy affliction which hung like a thunder cloud, over their heads.
Naturally of a sanguine and ambitious temperament, William Woodbridge, our hero, a youth of eighteen, whose well-knit frame and air of eager attention had attracted the notice of the recruiting-sergeant, was led away by that worthy functionary's specious representations of certain honour and preferment, took the proffered shilling, and joined the motley troop that he had collected from various quarters, and was then conducting to the depot at Chatham.
We will pass over the anguish and distress with which the parents heard of their son's enlistment. We will pass over, also, the worthy couple's exertions and sacrifices to raise the sum necessary to purchase his discharge, and the prayers and entreaties with which, after traversing on foot the weary miles between his late and present places of abode, they endeavoured to prevail on him to accompany them back to that peaceful home, which, without him, their only child, appeared so gloomy and desolate. Let it suffice that the youth, naturally warm hearted and affectionate, though deeply grieved at their sorrow, had too much pride and self-will to confess his error, and abandon his imagined career of glory. The unhappy parents therefore went sadly home again to weep and lament, and weary heaven with prayers, for the safety and restoration of their still beloved though undutiful child.
We will fancy Woodbridge duly examined by the surgeon—a process, by the way, which rather disgusted him, and wounded his self-respect:—cropped by the the barber—another operation to which he submitted somewhat unwillingly, but which he found necessary to constitute him a true son of glory;—and decked in the livery of war. He thought that the materials of his brick-dust coloured coat, and dark grey trouseis, might have been finer, and that greater pains might have been taken to fit them to his shapely frame. His dress altogether was neither so comfortable, nor anything like so rich in appearance, as he had expected to assume, and he expressed his disappointment on this head to his friend, the sergeant, who, with a meaning smile to a brother noncom.[2], which the recruit could not, at the time, understand, told him he was but a grub chrysalis then, and would by and by emerge into the full splendour of the butterfly state.
In the crowded barrack-room, where this scene had occurred, all was noise and confusion; oaths and blasphemous expressions were loud on every side, and his soul sickened at the atmosphere of moral corruption which he had now begun to breathe. His refusal to join in the obscene jests and foul conversation carried on around him was attributed to pride; and the "gentleman recruit," as he was called in mockery, began already to be looked upon with dislike by the majority of his comrades, who envied his manifest superiority, and would fain see him as morally debased and degraded as themselves. "Never mind," said Dick Smith, one of the most profligate and hardened of their number, as William left the barrack-room in disgust, to stroll forth into the town—"never mind; let him alone, and see if he does not become like one of us. Many a youngster have I known in my time, who came into the service as gentle and innocent as a turtle dove, but never a one have I seen remain so long. Why, I used to read the Bible myself once, and say my prayers, and do all that sort of thing; and as to an oath, it seemed as if it would choke me; now they come out freely enough; prayers I leave to children, and women, and the garrison chaplain, and as to the Bible which my poor old mother gave me—rest her soul! what would she think of me now?—I have n't looked into it this many a year. Let him alone; he's taken the shilling, sworn to be a soldier, and must think, and feel, and act as we do, by and by.
Was Dick a true prophet?—But we will not anticipate. We left our hero taking a stroll in the streets of Chatham; it was evening, the third evening after his arrival. He was alone, without a friend or companion, a sort of reaction was beginning to take place in his feelings; he felt sick at heart, and half inclined to repent the rash step he had taken. His thoughts reverted to his parents, and to the peaceful scenes of his childhood, with a yearning fondness. He noticed not the shop windows, nor the tempting array of wares exposed for sale; he heard not the rattle of the carriages, nor the oaths and blasphemous expressions of the drunken soldiers and sailors who thronged the streets, nor the mocking cries of—"Heads up, crutie!—Eyes right, young lobster!"—by which he was every now and then greeted, as they reeled past. In this state of mind he was unaware that he was followed by that same Dick Smith, who, unknown to himself, had predicted the speedy overthrow of his virtuous principles and resolves, and who also was very much disposed to aid in the same.
"You seem down-hearted, Woodbridge," said the older soldier, overtaking him; what's the matter, my boy? Sorry to part with the old people? Well, that's all very natural; only you mustn't fret too much about it. Shake off dull care, as the song says, and be merry, like the rest of us. Come, just step in here with me, and we'll have a glass of something to cheer our spirits, for I feel a little dullish myself this evening."
With these deceitful words he led the way down the long sanded passage of a low public-house, and into a little Side room, the only occupants of which were two or three degraded and unfortunate females, that abound more especially in all garrison and seaport towns: these Smith introduced to the recruit as "two ladies who would be proud to make his acquaintance." Woodbridge, who was unsuspicious of evil, thought them agreeable sort of persons, the more especially as they took care not to disgust or alarm him by too gross or familiar a manner and conversation, having been warned on this head. After a couple of glasses of spirits and water, ordered by the elder, and paid for, of course, by the younger soldier, they sallied forth to take a walk round "the Lines," as the ground adjoining the Chatham fortifications is called. During this evening ramble the young recruit found the fair lady who had attached herself more particularly to him so very agreeable that he devoted to her all his thoughts; and never did a greater discord jar upon his ear than when the sprightly fifes and rattling drums give the signal for the men to return to their quarters. After a parting glass, and an appointment to meet again the next evening, they parted, and thus was thrown around the unsuspecting youth the first coil of the net that was to drag him down to shame and destruction.
The recruit awoke the next morning at the sound of the reveillé, with a slight headache, and a feeling somewhat akin to remorse; but he was within the snare, and retreat from its perils under his circumstances was as difficult, as next to impossible, as retreat from the lines of battle.
It will not be necessary to enter into all the sickening details of our hero's progress through the several stages and degrees of vice; let it suffice that in little more than two months the progress of initiation was complete, and that he had learnt to swear, and blaspheme, and drink, and wallow in the mire of corruption with the best, or rather the worst, of his dissolute companions. His was the common case. Few can resist the demoralizing influence of bad example, especially at that age of unsettled principles at which the young recruit is exposed to all the temptations and allurements of vice, too generally without any warning of the dangers he is about to encounter or encouragement to resist them. So that he is obedient to orders, and attentive to his drill, and other duties, and strives to become what is termed "a smart soldier," it is a matter of little consequence how depraved his habits, or benighted his mind may be:—Mind? a soldier's mind? They do not recognize the existence of such a thing at "the Horse Guards." True, they appoint chaplains, sound, orthodox men, no doubt; younger sons of noble families, and the like, who must be provided for—to perform the regular services of the church, consecrate the colours, and do all that sort of thing. True, they appoint, or sanction the appointment, of schoolmasters just for decency's sake; but these have only to do with the children—the born bond-slaves of the great Moloch, whose hand is red with the sacrifice of millions. As for those who, when grown up, enter into a compact with the grim destroyer of souls and bodies, the schoolmaster has nothing to do with them, and the chaplain but very little—nothing, indeed, individually. Every Sunday they march to church, to hear the triumphing and exulting music of the band, decked in the trappings of pride and earthly glory, to hear the glad tidings of salvation, and to be told that meekness, and humility, and forgiveness of injuries, and dependence, not in human strength, not in carnal weapons, but in God alone, are the marks and qualifications of the true christian; in short to hear preached what they dare not practice for their lives. But let us proceed with our story.
Being a smart, active young man, Woodbridge soon got out of "the awkward squad;" not, however, before he was heartily tired of making mill-sweeps of his arms, and compasses of his legs, and turning his eyes right and left at the word of command, and "standing at ease" in a most uneasy position. Having joined a regiment under orders for foreign service, he looked impatiently for the day of embarkation as the commencement of his career of honour and promotion. But months passed on, and still the head quarters of the —th remained at Chatham, and still the recruit plunged deeper and deeper into the excesses and dissipations of a garrison life.
"Did I not say," said the prophesying Dick Smith, who had taken considerable pains to bring about the fulfilment of his predictions—"Did I not say that he would soon be like the rest of us? Talk about bringing up in the right way, and giving the mind the proper bias, and all that: what's the use of it, if the man's to go for a soldier? We're all tarred with the same brush here—must be alike—must be uniform, same as our coats are, else of what service are we? And as to 'nice notions about religion;' why the sooner we get rid of them the better, for hasn't our great commander-in-chief said, the man that has these isn't fit for a soldier? of course he has, and said rightly too, 'The worse men, the better sold'ers,' was Buonaparte's motto, and blest if I don't think our young friend Woodbridge is likely to prove himself the very best in the army, according to this rule."
Six months have passed away since William Woodbridge took the fatal shilling, and now he has got the single stripe on his arm which marks him for promotion. He has naturally good abilities, improved by an education superior to that of most of those who fill the ranks of the British army, a vigorous constitution, and a frame well knit and sinewy; so that he possesses the mental and physical qualifications necessary for rising in "the noble profession of arms." And no doubt he will rise, if—oh, that if!—he can but restrain that propensity for drink, which even in this short space of time, has grown upon him, and become so strong a habit, and inclination, that it threatens to render him its complete slave.
Another month has passed, and Corporal Woodbridge, with the regiment to which he belongs, is under orders for speedy embarkation. Several days, however, must elapse before the transports will be at Gravesend ready to take their living freight, and William asks for, and obtains, a forty-eight hours leave of absence, to go and bid farewell to his parents. We will not describe his journey, nor the parting scene; it is sufficient to state that the young man returned to Chatham in the evening of the second day, determined, as he said, "to make a night of it," for he had not to appear in barracks until after the breakfast parade.
That night there was a quarrel and a row in one of those infamous public-houses, from whence the sounds of the fiddle, with all the accompaniments of drunken revelry, may be generally heard; and a female was struck dead by the hand of a man, and that man was said to be Corporal Woodbridge, although he strongly denied it; and so much confusion and uproar prevailed at the time, that no one could positively swear that it was he who gave the fatal blow: nevertheless he was committed to take his trial at the next assizes, and was therefore, of course, unable to accompany his regiment abroad.
For two months he occupied the felons' cell, and then, being acquitted for want of sufficient evidence, was sent back to barracks, and tried by a court-martial for being absent without leave. The stripes were taken from his arm, and he was again private Woodbridge, with the brand of imputed murder upon his name, and the stigma of drunkenness upon his character, the first of which caused him to be shunned by all but the most hardened and vicious of his fellow soldiers, while the latter rendered him an object of distrust and dislike to his officers.
We will not dwell at any great length upon the remainder of our hero's career; henceforth he was a doomed man; there was no return for him to the paths of innocence and good repute. Whether he really did or did not commit the dreadful crime of which he was accused, we cannot say. but certain it is that a settled gloom took possession of his countenance, and a sense like that of conscious guilt seemed weighing him down. From being the most boisterous and merry in the barrack, or tap-room, he became the most silent and melancholy; in his fits of drunkenness, which were now more frequent than ever (for he took every opportunity of drowning his consciousness in drink) he grew absolutely ferocious, and it was only by force that he was prevented at such times from doing some mischief to himself or those around him. He was again imprisoned, and twice subjected to the brutal and brutalizing punishment of the cat for selling his necessaries to procure liquor, and committing other offences against subordination and good discipline.
But these were not the means to-effect improvement; harsh treatment and lashes never yet made a bad man better. "Severity is not the way to govern men or brutes," said the great Lord Mansfield, and the wisdom and policy of this maxim is now, we would hope, beginning to be understood, even in the army.
It may, however, be said that I am arguing against myself, and refuting my own theory, when I tell the reader that, after his second flogging, there was a marked alteration for the better in the conduct of Woodbridge; he became more attentive to his duties, more careful of his clothes and accoutrements; was seldom seen intoxicated, and shunned the company of the drunkards and debauchees with whom he had of late principally associated.
"Flogging has done wonders for that man," observed the captain of his company to the garrison adjutant one day at mess; "we must try it with some more of them; I never saw so good an effect produced by any punishment before;" and henceforth the lash was more frequently used at Chatham, than it had been for many years past. But could they have looked beneath the surface, and seen what was the inward change produced by this reformatory process, they would surely have abandoned it altogether, or, at least, have used it much more sparingly. They had changed a man—brutalized and degraded, no doubt, by the vices into which, for want of care and superintendence, he had fallen, yet still a man, with some of the finer feelings and more generous impulses of humanity within him,—into a demon, resolved to accomplish all the mischief he could, and to drag as many of his fellow-creatures as possible down to his own level. He thirsted for revenge, and took a fiendish pleasure in believing that he should be able to repay with usury the debt of wrongs and injuries which had, as he thought—and, to a certain extent, thought rightly—been inflicted on him by his officers, and comrades, and society at large; and, as a means to that end, he, by the influence of a powerful will over his bad habits and inclinations, conquered them so far as to appear reformed. He took good care to foster the delusion that it was the flogging that had wrought such wonders for him, and hailed with inward satisfaction the growing frequency of punishment, consequent upon this notion; while to the sufferers under it he spoke of the injustice and cruelty of the infliction, and of a time for revenge. In short he had become an extremely dangerous man, and the more so for being trusted and considered a repentant one.
After remaining three months longer at Chatham, making up the term of his service to a year, he was sent with a convict guard to New South Wales, en route to join his regiment in India; his rank of corporal was restored to him, and a promise given of recommendation for further promotion, should his conduct merit it. The communication into which he was now brought with the worst offenders against the laws of God and man completed his education in crime; and when, after the usual routine of service, he joined his regiment, he was, perhaps, one of the most finished villains of which the British army could boast. But, what of that?—he was a good soldier; had plenty of that bull-dog courage and daring which distinguishes the Englishman; and was troubled with no scruples or qualms of conscience, but was ever ready to do any devil's work which he might be set about. While secretly fomenting discontent amongst the men of his regiment, he openly preached the doctrine of blind, unquestioning obedience, that key-stone of the arch of military discipline.
One incident will serve to illustrate his mode of working out what was now the great aim of his existence,—revenge, for his own fancied wrongs and injuries, upon whomsoever might come within his sphere of action. Dick Smith, now a sergeant, of the company to which Woodbridge belonged, had caused a private to be punished, for using towards him threatening and disrespectful language; this private was of a sullen, unforgiving disposition, and capable, when under the influence of drink, to which he was much addicted, of any act of desperation and crime. Woodbridge and Serjeant Smith had long since quarrelled, and our hero now made up his mind to be revenged. He, therefore, pretended great commiseration and sympathy with the private, and so wrought upon his evil nature as to induce him to take the life of the offending sergeant by shooting him on the parade ground one day, when the men were practising volley-firing, The perpetrator of the crime would most likely have remained undiscovered, for it was impossible to tell from which musket the ball came, had not Woodbridge pointed him out, and, with every mark of horror and reprobation of the deed, gave unquestionable proofs of his being the murderer. The poor man was hanged. Smith was buried with military honours, and Woodbridge, who was made sergeant in his place, led the funeral party.
Years passed on, and the climate and the strong drink, in which our hero still indulged to a very great extent, made fearful ravages on his health and constitution; the effects of his early excesses, too, on account of which he had been twice in the hospital while at Chatham, began to be felt; and it was plain that the man was breaking up, and would not be much longer fit for active service.
The war with the Sikhs broke out; his regiment was ordered to the Punjaub, and shared in all the glory, honour, and carnage of Moodkee Ferozeshah and Sobraon. Woodbridge escaped with the loss of the right arm, a severe gash over the left eye, and a bullet wound in the side, and was sent home, with many more of the maimed victims of legalised murder, to be examined and pensioned off, according to their hurts and length of servitude. Behold him now, after the medical board of Fort Pitt had been duly consulted, and decided on his claim for compensation; and after his arrears of pay have been handed over to him;—behold him now, we say, with the medal—the glorious reward and memento of bloody deeds—dangling by an inch of parti-coloured ribbon from his breast, and the empty sleeve, and the black bandage on the temple, which covers the eye, where sight is gone for ever; and the sullen cheeks, so sunken and hollow, and the emaciated limbs—a veteran soldier! How different to the comely youth, who, but twelve short years ago, stepped proudly along, full of ambitious dreams and aspiring thoughts!
What a wreck of manly beauty, of power and energy, and perfect physical organisation; and still more a thousand times of the heart and the whole moral being, may be traced in the discharged soldier—the cast-off and broken-down INVALID! Look at him as he staggers through the streets; listen to his obscene and blasphemous language, broken and interrupted by the hollow cough and the hiccough of drunkenness! Mark the lurid light that flashes from his bloodshot eyes, and the ghastly hue of his embrowned visage? Is it not degrading to human nature to call such a creature a brother? And yet he is so; pity and compassion and Christian love yearn towards him, and would snatch him, as a brand, from the burning. Horror and detestation of the system which has reduced him to the deplorable condition, we may, and ought to entertain! and it is our bounden duty to raise a warning voice to the young and inexperienced man, who may listen to the words of the scarlet-coated tempter, to deter him from becoming a RECRUIT; lest, at no very distant period, he realise our truthfully-drawn picture of the INVALID,—those two stages which form the Alpha and Omega of military service, and between which such an amount of crime and misery are included.
1. By a bill now in progress through Parliament, the period of enlistment is altered to ten years, with a discretionary power in the commanding officer of retention for two years longer. This is somewhat better.
2. A common abbreviation for a non-commissioned officer.