Chapter 7: The Lincoln Imps

Paperwork, paperwork, nothing but paperwork!
Had I known the amount of quill pushing I would have to contend with as Colonel of the Lincolnshire Militia I might not have accepted the promotion. The fear that my time spent dealing with reports and suchlike in MI5 would not be applicable to commanding a regiment vanished on the first day in my office in Lincoln Castle.
“Damn the lot!” I swore, and swept the entire pile of requests, requisitions, instructions, invoices, and nominal rolls, off the table and onto the floor.

One name had stuck out as I had pored over the nominal roll – Casper Shufflebottom – a memorable name you would agree. The senior clerk at Mortimer, Teazle, and Grubbe had borne that name when I was apprenticed scrivener, and I could not believe there being two men of the same name in the county, probably not even in the Kingdom.
I had Shufflebottom sent for, and it was indeed the former solicitor’s clerk who now stood before me. He had been a quiet, unassuming man, somewhere near fifteen years older than we apprentices, who had teased him unmercifully over his surname, which he took in good part. What he was doing in the militia at his age, and what had happened to change his life was of no interest to me — well maybe just a smidgen — but I knew him as an excellent manager of office routine, and promptly promoted him to regimental clerk, with the rank of Sergeant.
I indicated the pile of documents on the floor.
“Sort that lot out, Casper. I know you will be able to append a fair rendering of my signature to any document – I recall you did the same for Mister Teazle – and I trust your judgment not to abuse your power, and also to refrain from signing anything you think I should be made aware of first.”
His look of gratitude lit up the office. He babbled his thanks, and called me ‘Jack’, until my stern look had him using ‘Colonel’ as every other word.
With the paperwork problem settled I could now prowl round the castle, poking my nose into all the corners of the regiment, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of my new command.

Alas, I soon found there were many more of the latter than of the former. The colonel of a regiment needs to know the character of all his men; good, bad, and indifferent, but as I was now only arrived in post my ignorance was a weakness. A regiment requires a second in command who can assist rather than obstruct the colonel, and take command in the event of something fatal happening to his superior. My second in command might have held those qualities but unfortunately, when introduced, had said.
“I am the King’s Champion, Colonel, and will have to attend not only His Majesty’s coronation on the July the nineteenth of this year but also many rehearsals. I request a leave of absence until after the coronation.”
I had completely forgotten the former Prince Regent, now King George IV, was to be crowned in Westminster Abbey in July, and no idea who or what the King’s Champion was, or what his duties entailed.
“It is only mid-April, Major Dymoke; the coronation is three months’ away.” I gazed at him thoughtfully. One might assume the person designated as being King’s Champion would be a fearsome fighting man, holding a mace in one hand and a girt big sword in the other. John Dymoke was the antithesis of a warrior, being a small, dapper man, with the academic air of a schoolmaster, or a lawyer, about him.
“I shall grant you furlough at the end of May, Major, which should be time enough to practise your – umm – championing, whatever that encompasses.”

The Dymoke family have held the position of King’s Champion for generations. The champion appears at the great banquet after the coronation and throws down his gauntlet, issuing a challenge to any one present at the banquet who disputes the right of the newly crowned monarch to reign. John Dymoke had the words of the challenge written down on a sheet of paper which he had with him all day, and would go about his duties muttering to himself, memorising the exact wording of the challenge.

I do not believe anyone has ever challenged the monarch’s right to his crown during the post-coronation banquet, but of course there is always a first time for everything. John Dymoke could be the first King’s Champion to have to fight for his sovereign’s honour, and would need all the time available to practise his morning star swinging technique – just in case.

The day-to-day administration of a regiment comes under the remit of the Regimental Adjutant, and the one in situ — Captain Alasdair de Courcey — was, in the words of Oliver Goldsmith, ‘A mouldering mass of rank, unwieldy, woe.’
De Courcey was corpulent to the degree of being gargantuan, unable to mount a horse without the use of a crane, and any woman similarly served would expire under the mounds of his flesh. He spent most of his day at the dinner table and his nights at the gaming table. I would have been surprised if this mountain of flesh and fat knew where the Adjutant’s Office was situated, and even if he did his bulk would have denied him entry into the room, and no chair could have borne his weight if he sat down at his desk.

I dismissed him as unfit for field service, using the authority of the C-in-C and of Lord Brownlow, who had added his authority to whatever measures I took.
All in all, given a newly promoted and green – that is a play on my surname by the way – lieutenant colonel, a soon to be absent second in command and a discharged Adjutant, the future of the regiment did not bode well.

I was sitting in my office contemplating suicide — I am joking — when Casper, my clerk and general factotum, announced. “An officer has arrived from London, Colonel.”
‘The Duke of York has sent the assistance promised at last’ I thought.
“Send him in, Casper.” I called out, and into the office marched Otto Blackmore, the heel clicking Anglo-Hanoverian.
He saluted. “Lieutenant Blackmore reporting for duty, Colonel,” and gave me a huge grin. I stood up and warmly shook his hand.
“Welcome to the madhouse, Otto,” I said.
“Surely it cannot be that bad, Colonel, and my heartiest...” he stopped in mid-sentence. “Colonel, I am distressed your promotion to colonel has made me forgetful of your great loss, and I wish to... “
I held up my hand. “Thank you Otto. We need not mention the matter again.”

I had no idea of the strengths and weaknesses of Otto Blackmore. However, I did know he served as ADC to his father at Waterloo, which was good enough for me to make him Adjutant, with a promotion to Captain.
I explained I was going to make structural changes to the regiment which could lead to the reassigning, or the dismissal, of some officers.
Otto’s first task would be to assess the effectiveness of the current incumbents, and if his and my assessments coincided I would act accordingly. And if they did not? Well, I would cross that bridge when encountered.
“What about the NCOs, Colonel? Are there any who will need cropping?” Otto asked.
“I have no authority to dismiss the rank and file, only those officers appointed on the recommendation of the Lord Lieutenant of the county. I am waiting for the senior NCO the Duke of York promised me before even thinking about promoting or demoting the other ranks.”
Blackmore flushed bright red. “I almost forgot. Sergeant Major Goodman accompanied me to Lincoln, and is your newly appointed Regimental Sergeant Major. I apologise for not apprising you of his arrival sooner. RSM Goodman said he would ‘snoop around the place’ before reporting to you.”
As he finished speaking, there came a knock at the door, and Casper announced. “Sarn’t Major Goodman to see you, Colonel.”

I bade him enter, and the doorway was filled as a huge man, at least two yards tall and nearly the same measurement wide, came into the office.
He stamped his feet in a thunderous halt in front of my desk – several pictures fell off the wall — and his arm swept up in a perfect salute.
“Sergeant Major Benjamin Goodman reporting for duty, Colonel.”
I had to crane my neck to see his face.
“Welcome to the Lincolnshire Militia, Mister Goodman.” It was a relatively new courtesy to address Regimental Sergeant Majors as Mister, giving them quasi-commissioned status.
He smiled broadly. “I’m right glad to be here, Colonel. You have some sergeants who I would not give charge of the regimental goat, and some who are as good as any I met when a member of the First Foot Guards.”
The latter remark was praise indeed, and I admit I felt a great relief there were some capable sergeants in the regiment. For all the braid and breeding of officers the sergeants actually run a regiment, and any Commanding Officer who forgets, or ignores, that simple truth is failing in his duty.

“As yet we have no regimental mascot, but I intend acquiring one at the earliest opportunity, meantime I am happy to be advised as to which sergeants should be promoted or demoted.” I indicated the chairs in the office. “Please, sit down both of you while I explain how I intend getting this regiment to the standard demanded by the Duke of York.”

A militia regiment comprises of between 500 - 700 men, that is musket-carrying men. The Lincolnshire Militia fell within those parameters; on the day in question 645 were available for duty, two were on compassionate furlough, seven were in the cells in the Castle, four were in the sick bay, and two were absent without leave.
Unlike the ten-company regular army battalion a militia regiment only had eight, there being no flank companies of Light Infantry or Grenadiers.
The militia do not carry a King’s colour, but do carry the Lord Lieutenant of the County’s standard, and a standard presented to the regiment by their Lieutenant Colonel. I made a mental note to have one manufactured at the earliest opportunity.

The County of Lincolnshire is divided into three smaller administrative regions called Ridings; each riding subdivided into smaller districts called Wapentakes, which date back to Saxon times. This ancient system has led to militia companies reflecting the size of the population of a Wapentake by the number of men in the company. For instance, Number Six Company was recruited from men drawn from the Wapentake of Winnibriggs and Threo, which includes Grantham and much of south Kesteven, and consequently was over 120 men strong. In contrast, Number Eight Company was formed by men from the Bettisloe Wapentake, an area of small, widely scattered, hamlets, and only numbered 38 men.