6th April 1813

This fine Saturday morning saw me up early (though the cockerel had risen nearly four hours previously) and kitted up. A good breakfast of bacon, sausage and egg was had from the kitchen of the farmhouse in which I was billeted and then I was away with the next mail coach, my equipment piled high on the back. Barely a dozen minutes later and I was in the coach house of the Ickworth estates, hauling muskets, tents and baggage up the long side path beside the house with four other members of the regiment. Rifles and redcoats streamed along the path with us to arrive in the huge camp of General Monk's amassed forces. It was a grand sight.
A selection of small artillery pieces and rocket launchers lay scattered around the field before the camp's entrance, whilst, flanking the main entrance, stood a pair of green coated riflemen and their sergeant. Above the rows and rows of tents flew the grand colours of our glorious king whilst at its base the 3rd battalion of 95th rifles paraded. Upon the drill field the 33rd and Coldstream guards were already hard at work (and would remain so throughout most of the day) whilst at the far end of the field new cavalry horses were trained.
We started the morning by collecting our muskets, followed by a quick and unofficial kit inspection by Sergeant Major Hotston. Finally, once everyone was kitted up, all the non military vehicles removed and Lieutenant Langley dressed, the company was paraded (without colours) and sent off on a long march across the fields to the rendezvous for divisional drill and training. We proved to be the first to have arrived, save for several riflemen, and for a long while we stood stationary in our column. But across the field was coming a dense column of men dressed in the dirty white and blue uniforms of Frogs! Of course they were not really Frenchmen, turned out for training purposes from the local militias, but the effect gave an accurate impression. I have only once  fought a real Frenchman and in the engagement I am afraid to say that I came off worse against the shabbily dressed man in his off duty Jacket with his bayonet in my side. Never have I fought, or even shot at, a column of the chanting enemy before. No doubt it was for this very reason, that the tactic of a two deep British line requires its men to stand no matter what, an almost impossible task failed or discounted by other European forces, that General Monk had thoughtfully provided our undersized division with a column of French men chanting bad trousers.

Once the other regiments, the men of the 44th, 3rd and Coldstream guards, were in position, the 44th being the only other regiment coming close to our numbers, the exercise started. At first we just stood as the column advanced into our faces, then, once it had retired and done the same thing several more times, we began firing volleys. A few more times of this and we were ready to brace the line. Fixing bayonets we prepared to receive the enemy at bayonet point and the resulting combats were bitter and a wholly new experience for someone who's only experience of massed combat was seven skirmishing highlanders counter charging nine or so French men.

After this entirely new and enlighting experience we marched back to camp, going the long way so as to parade through as much of the camp as we could, though with the majority of officers still out on the field we got few salutes.
A hurried lunch of bread and sausage was had from my haversack whilst we counted in the cartridges alloted us. Very soon members of the general's staff  had turned up to hurry us along and again we were turned out into our column, thankfully with out backpacks this time, and marched down to the main path through the estates. There the entire division was arrayed, including a Russian artillery crew I had spotted earlier but had not been believed about, to be inspected by General Monk and lady Stanhope before standing for a minutes silence to those who died last year in service against Bonaparte and the Americans, whether they be British, Russian, German, Spanish, Portuguese or even French! After that the division retired however our Lieutenant held us back to tout for recruits from the gathered crowd, to my knowledge none were forth coming.
Not much of a break was had in the camp before we were again out for drill. This time arrayed across the top of a ridge just one rank thin with the same French column advancing up towards us but this time supported by artillery. This time it was a sensory test and for over an hour we stood as explosives detonated around us and the French came on through the mists

After many hours of this standing about and drilling our noble commanders decided that we had beaten our foe and we were marched back to camp where we fell out for the evening. Being an especially cold day I made the purchase of a great coat; a grey woolen affair with a cape. I was then introduced to a naval lieutenant, attatched as signal officer to the division, and his wife. But little did any of us know what signals would soon be being sent...

5th April 1813

I ride fast through the countryside north of London. I have spent the winter months at Candleford house, my village estate in Stanmere, whilst on the European continent the remnants of the French army licks its wounds and sends the press gangs out into the streets of Paris. Bonaparte has been in America  spreading the poisonous seeds of republicanism whilst our brave lobster backs hold the forts on the Canadian border. But in the Peninsular, though the gates of Madrid had only last year opened for us, and I myself remember hearing of the destruction whilst lying upon the surgeon's bed, a bayonet wound still healing in my side, Marquess Wellington has met with defeat for the first time since landing on the beaches of Portugal. It has been the castle of Burgos that finally defeated him! High losses were taken by us the 42nd, as we lost thirty nine men and four officers including Captain Butterworth, hero of Corunna, and when our company retreated, along with the rest of the British army under Wellington's command, back across the Portuguese border to winter quarters in Guillade, the entire battalion still carrier but only four hundred men effective, the rest having been struck down with Walachern fever.
However I have, as previously stated, spent the winter months on my estates nine miles north of the capital recovering from my wounds, so I have experienced none of the hardships of the first battalion and have even been exempted from training with the second battalion. But I am travelling again now, heading north by coach to the first muster of the troops bound for Spain this spring (which is not yet officially upon us, for only yesterday it snowed!). A camp has been formed in the grounds of Ickworth house, the residence of the earl of Bristol, the grounds of which have been commandeered as a training ground for the rifles and which, this weekend, are to become the home of General Monk's new recruits.
Recruiting parties will ravage Bury St Edmunds and the surrounding countryside, whilst fresh soldiers like myself will be retrained and reequipped. This May we shall all sail for the Peninsular, if the regiment has not completely succumbed entirely to fever.
Tonight we rest in local billets in anticipation of General Monk's arrival.