Devington was ready and responded eagerly. With an encouraging pat to Ol' Jack, he wheeled and trotted off briskly to join his squadron, easily identifiable by their blue facings and housings, made conspicuous by a sea of crimson.
Locating his own Sixth Troop of the King's Horse, Devington hastily fell into the second line center, directly behind Captain Drake, whose height alone would have placed him in the front line if his position had not. Although of medium height, Devington was consigned to the more diminutive middle ranks, sandwiched front and aft by the taller men.
To Captain Drake's credit, his entire rank and file marshaled with precision and alacrity. They set out, smart-stepping in rigid scarlet columns. Their rifles clanked as they swung against their sabers, and the ground quaked with the low, rumbling thunder of their ironshod chargers' hooves in rhythm with the kettledrum.
They marched through days of whipping wind and pelting rain, making field camp every night, with rarely a dry stick to start a fire, sleeping in wet clothes, and eating the coarse bread and dried meat that comprised the daily ration. Striking up camp every dawn, they repeated the routine, day after day. The journey, although onerous enough for the callow recruits, proved debilitating to a number of the young, green horses, who had to be put down for foundering.
After three arduous weeks of heavy marching in such deplorable conditions, the troops finally gained the Flemish city of Maestricht, temporary field headquarters of Field Marshal Stair, commander in chief of the Pragmatic Army. Their respite, however, was dismally brief.
After having wasted months in his unsuccessful effort to press the Dutch to join the alliance against her neighbor, France, Lord Stair's patience had finally expired. Frustrated and eager to engage, Lord Stair ordered his forces to decamp from Flanders. Without Dutch support and against the counsel of the Austrian and Hanoverian general, the field marshal advanced his British forces into French-occupied Franconia and marched resolutely up the hills of Killersbach, drawing up lines of battle in full sight of the French generals, who completely ignored the taunt.
Failing to engage even the interest of the enemy, the British Army moved farther up the river to join the Austrian and Hanoverian regiments. Stair and his Pragmatic generals continued to vacillate and dither, failing still to agree on a single plan of action, forcing their respective troops into the mundane and restless routine of regimental life while the French set up camp on the opposite bank of the river,
patiently waiting to make their move.
For Devington, the monotony of the routine gave him far too much time to ponder. He missed the rolling Yorkshire hills and the morning "breezes" on the heath, but most of all, his heart yearned for Charlotte.
June 1, 1743
My Dearest Love,
I write from our regiment's encampment outside the city of Aschaffenburg in Franconia.
To my great disillusionment, my soldiering days thus far have dif fered little from my days as the under groom at Heathstead Hall.
I rise each morning before dawn, awakened by the trump of reveille, and push aside my four tent mates, who cram each night into our seven by-nine-foot canvas shelter. We report for roll at five of the clock and then stable call at five and a quarter, during which time all troopers feed and groom their horses. At half past six, we receive a sparse breakfast.
Watering call ensues breakfast, which while garrisoned requires carting hundreds of gallons of water to the picket lines, or if encamped, marching the horses a full mile or more to the nearest watering place.
Drills and arms' practice take place from nine until eleven, with a brief respite prior to our noon meal of beer, dark bread, and cheese. The afternoon continues with troop reviews and mounted drill, followed by dismounted drill to prepare for
Locating his own Sixth Troop of the King's Horse, Devington hastily fell into the second line center, directly behind Captain Drake, whose height alone would have placed him in the front line if his position had not. Although of medium height, Devington was consigned to the more diminutive middle ranks, sandwiched front and aft by the taller men.
To Captain Drake's credit, his entire rank and file marshaled with precision and alacrity. They set out, smart-stepping in rigid scarlet columns. Their rifles clanked as they swung against their sabers, and the ground quaked with the low, rumbling thunder of their ironshod chargers' hooves in rhythm with the kettledrum.
They marched through days of whipping wind and pelting rain, making field camp every night, with rarely a dry stick to start a fire, sleeping in wet clothes, and eating the coarse bread and dried meat that comprised the daily ration. Striking up camp every dawn, they repeated the routine, day after day. The journey, although onerous enough for the callow recruits, proved debilitating to a number of the young, green horses, who had to be put down for foundering.
After three arduous weeks of heavy marching in such deplorable conditions, the troops finally gained the Flemish city of Maestricht, temporary field headquarters of Field Marshal Stair, commander in chief of the Pragmatic Army. Their respite, however, was dismally brief.
After having wasted months in his unsuccessful effort to press the Dutch to join the alliance against her neighbor, France, Lord Stair's patience had finally expired. Frustrated and eager to engage, Lord Stair ordered his forces to decamp from Flanders. Without Dutch support and against the counsel of the Austrian and Hanoverian general, the field marshal advanced his British forces into French-occupied Franconia and marched resolutely up the hills of Killersbach, drawing up lines of battle in full sight of the French generals, who completely ignored the taunt.
Failing to engage even the interest of the enemy, the British Army moved farther up the river to join the Austrian and Hanoverian regiments. Stair and his Pragmatic generals continued to vacillate and dither, failing still to agree on a single plan of action, forcing their respective troops into the mundane and restless routine of regimental life while the French set up camp on the opposite bank of the river,
patiently waiting to make their move.
For Devington, the monotony of the routine gave him far too much time to ponder. He missed the rolling Yorkshire hills and the morning "breezes" on the heath, but most of all, his heart yearned for Charlotte.
June 1, 1743
My Dearest Love,
I write from our regiment's encampment outside the city of Aschaffenburg in Franconia.
To my great disillusionment, my soldiering days thus far have dif fered little from my days as the under groom at Heathstead Hall.
I rise each morning before dawn, awakened by the trump of reveille, and push aside my four tent mates, who cram each night into our seven by-nine-foot canvas shelter. We report for roll at five of the clock and then stable call at five and a quarter, during which time all troopers feed and groom their horses. At half past six, we receive a sparse breakfast.
Watering call ensues breakfast, which while garrisoned requires carting hundreds of gallons of water to the picket lines, or if encamped, marching the horses a full mile or more to the nearest watering place.
Drills and arms' practice take place from nine until eleven, with a brief respite prior to our noon meal of beer, dark bread, and cheese. The afternoon continues with troop reviews and mounted drill, followed by dismounted drill to prepare for
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