Nathaniel Drake looked across at his commanding Officer and remarked the contrast to himself. All throughout their easy cruise from Cork, even on the edge of the August storm, Henry Carr had been his usual indolent and casual self, talking in his usual matter-of-fact manner, even of his beloved Jane Perry. However, once in the presence of the enemy, either clearly perceived or but merely possible, there came a change, obvious and manifest. Out before his men, Carr resembled a creature of the hunt, awake and aware, his cold blue eyes casting everywhere, searching for any signs of a threat, either small or fully significant.
The Company’s new Lieutenant, Richard Shakeshaft, was similarly looking before him with equal intensity,. He was young, not yet twenty, with an intelligent, active face, behind which existed a mind much inclined to overactive thought. At that moment, that mind had contrived the notion that ahead of him was enemy territory; in fact the very inch before the toecaps of his wet boots was enemy territory, thus he expected a French soldier to be behind every tree, wall and sagging fence within the next mile. Whilst behind him, first in their files, were Private Saunders and Private Byford, the latter of unknown background, but plainly, by his speech and the use he made of his leisure time, the nearest thing the Light Company had to what was known as a “Gentleman Ranker.” The silence required of the parade ground had no place in skirmish order and so, now halted at the crest of the dunes, talking would not be a flogging offence. Saunders, leaning casually on his Baker rifle and, fully appreciating the “first time” of his Section Officer, felt the need to pile on the moment.
“Perfect place for a cavalry charge, eh, Byfe? French cavalry be the best in Europe, so they say.”
Byford, fully appreciating what was happening in the mind of his immediate superior, felt no need to further add to what he knew must be his state of extreme anxiety, so he made no answer, just knowingly smiled. Shakeshaft craned his neck forward, the better to see what could be approaching, his overactive imagination now fully creative.
Carr, in the lead, had crested the dunes to see a dull, flat, plain from which a heat haze was beginning to rise and, beyond that, through the distortion, was a duller estuary, still awaiting the tide. On a promontory, where the river met the sea, was a collection of hovels and fishing boats, both in various degrees of dilapidation. He lifted his shako to block out the sun, revealing the two scars on his forehead, one from battle, the other from duelling, bisecting his left eyebrow. He spoke to himself, “Welcome to Portugal”, then he spoke to each soldier either side of him.
“Out to twenty.”
This would extend the gap between his files to twenty yards and thus guard four times the distance.
“Back files clean weapons.”
As his commands were passed on and the files extended far out, his attention was suddenly drawn to the movement of horsemen to his right as they cantered towards him. He was pleased to see the front rank of Drake’s section all present arms, a gesture of respect not lost on the horsemen, the leader of whom acknowledged all with a touch of his riding crop, up to the peak of his bi-corn hat. The group were definitely Staff and the leader, so Carr reasoned, was probably Wellesley himself; he certainly matched the descriptions that he had heard, a face on the thin side, aquiline nose and a lean athletic build. He wore no uniform, but a plain dark blue frock coat, another Wellesley characteristic, or so it was described. Whatever, they were not French and they were certainly superior in rank to himself. It was deeply probable that this was their General Commanding Officer, seen for the first time. The leading horseman reined in before Carr, at a comfortable speaking distance but not so close as to force Carr to awkwardly look up, a tedious ploy of so many General Officers. Carr waited for the General to open the conversation and it was not long in coming.
“Who are you?”
Now, from a General Officer, this was not an enquiry to make an introduction of a social nature, such as name and family, societal position or otherwise, it was more akin to an order to discover very straightforward military identity, personal names not being required. As his sword came to the present, Carr replied, as required.
“Light Company, 105th Foot. Here on picket. Sir.”
The figure acknowledged the salute by again touching his hat with his riding crop, and then he eased himself in the saddle, resting on the pommel. He was almost smiling, as though amused by something curious, but not altogether diverting. Carr lowered his sword and the Officer continued.
“Ah, Lacey’s, if I’m not mistaken. 105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment. Quite a mouthful.”
“Sir.”
“The heroes of Maida.”
“Some people have been very kind, Sir.”
“Including the Prince of Wales, it would seem.”
“Sir.”
The General nodded, then swung his horse around to give himself a view of both Carr and the country beyond.
“Keep a good eye to your front. As best you can.”
The last words were added as the heat was making the distance more indiscernible and hazy by the minute.
“Cavalry, that’s what I expect. Any kind of uniform on a horse and I want to know. The first thing you’ll see is probably a glint from the sun on something. You’d agree?
“Sir.”
“Were I Light Cavalry I would use those trees there, behind that white hut, to get as close as possible and get a good look. Probably dismounted.”
He eased himself again in the saddle.
“I hope that helps.”
“Yes Sir, it does.”
Carr was both mildly surprised and pleased to receive such clear and knowledgeable orders from such as a Staff Officer.
“Have you a glass?”
“Yes Sir. A good Dolland.”
The figure looked please and nodded.
“Now, retire your men back behind the crest. Always a good move, I find.”
“Sir.”
The horse was turned back to face the way they had come.
“I bid you good-day then, Captain.”
“May I know your name, please, Sir?”
“Wellesley.”
***
Captain Lord Charles Harvey Carravoy was somewhat anxious about his mount. He smelt of mutton fat and brick dust and could manage no more than a laborious plod. Carravoy and his Grenadiers of 105th Foot were finally disembarking and the Lord Charles could see no reason why his new boots, recently made for him and purchased from Batten’s of Gloucester, should suffer a soaking in seawater, thus the nearest Grenadier was being employed to carry him ashore. A look to the right showed a picture similar to that created by himself, because his Junior Lieutenant, The Honourable Royston Marchman D’Villiers was also being born ashore by a labouring member of their Company. Carravoy’s Grenadier had stopped, supposedly assuming that his efforts to preserve the dry feet of his Commanding Officer were over, but Carravoy looked down to see surf still making its last efforts to soak the bone-dry beach.
“Not yet, further.”
The Grenadier took five more steps, which passed to relieve him of his burden. Carravoy’s feet met the sand and, with not a word to his severely fatigued and very wet Grenadier, he strode off to D’Villiers, now similarly ensconced on dry land.
“Royston, get the men assembled and get some kind of camp set up. I anticipate us marching off before the day’s done. I’m off to find Lacey and O’Hare. Pass that onto Ameshurst, will you.”
D’Villiers did no more than raise his finger to his temple; their equality in social class required no more. D’Villiers had transferred himself from Number Three Company, Commanded by Captain Heaviside, to fill a battle casualty in the Grenadiers and he now felt far more at ease with his situation, rather than, as he put it, to be “An altarboy for Holy Joe Heaviside”. This description justified by the fact that the Captain of Number Three was a deeply devout Methodist. Although D’Villiers was the junior of his two Lieutenants, Carravoy tended to treat him as the senior, for the other,
Simon Ameshurst, despite having shown himself in the past as a brave and resourceful Officer, was from a significantly lower social stratum, a gap too great either to bridge or even to be wished to. Lord Charles, exuded aristocracy from every pore, possessed of classic, finely chiselled good looks, every gesture and syllable spoke of sangfroid and self-regard. Also D’Villiers could equally be described as pleasing to the eye, were it not for a pinched peevishness that seemed to inform every expression and gesture. Thus, it was now the case, as Carravoy strode off, leaving D’Villiers to solve the problem, of where to place their Company in readiness to march off. Nowhere seemed to be absolutely right, but his conundrum was solved by his Officer companion, the aforesaid Lieutenant Ameshurst, who had spotted the arrival of the pair and felt it would be helpful to impart what he knew.
“Hello, Royston, not too damp I hope?”
Ameshurst was naturally cheerful, with a personality instinctively inclined towards being helpful. He was well regarded by his men and any would have willingly carried him ashore, but his uniform was wet almost to his waist.
“The Regiment’s assembling but a little way further down the beach. A Headquarters has been set up, there’s a small tent just up there, if you care to look.”
He turned that way himself and counted.
“Third one along.”
D’Villiers felt piqued that Ameshurst was privy to knowledge that he was not and should be. His reply was cold.
“Captain Carravoy told me pass on to you that he has gone off to look for the Colonel and Major O’Hare. He’s of the opinion that we may be marching off this very day.”
Ameshurst’s countenance brightened further; he could be of additional help.
“Yes. I bumped into him just now and told him what I just told you.”
He smiled, expecting something extra from the noble D’Villiers, but nothing came.
“Right, I’m off to get my lot organised. See you anon.”
With that he touched his hat and disappeared up the beach, calling for a Sergeant, and using his full title.
“Sergeant Ridgway! Your help, if you please?”
D’Villiers scowled at such unnecessary, as he saw it, care in addressing someone of lower rank and then considered what he himself should do to move things forward. Many of the soldiers dropping off from the sides of beached longboats were 105th, very distinctive by the emerald green facing of their uniforms. He walked down the beach to the first group, an important group, for they were the Colour Party, but this made little difference to D’Villiers. They were all of lower rank compared to himself, including the two Ensigns, but he came first to a Colour Sergeant and forced himself to acknowledge that, from this particular individual, any information that came would be worth listening to.
“Sergeant.”
Colour Sergeant Jedediah Deakin came to immediate attention. He had recognised the voice and straightened himself immediately, his musket beside his left leg. He knew that he was being addressed by Lieutenant D’Villiers and his disdain for this particular Officer was as deep as could be, but this did not show as he stared rigidly to his front.
“Sir.”
“Any Grenadiers further along from you?”
“No Sir. All beyond us is Number Three, Sir. The Colour Company. Sir.”
Deakin thought it best to add the last piece of information, for he could not be to any degree certain that this particular Lieutenant would be aware, that, unusually for the British Army, in the 105th Number Three Company protected The Colours, therefore he, Deakin, was attached to that Company. D’Villiers did no more than nod, a gesture that Deakin could not even see as he stared straight ahead, then, without a word, the Honourable walked off in the direction of Captain Carravoy. Deakin stood stock still for a count of ten, then relaxed to look and see D’Villier’s back, now some ten yards away and increasing. Deakin shook his head in disbelief at the studied ill manners of this Officer, for whom, if truth be told, he felt the deepest and most thorough disdain, then he turned to his good and best friend, Corporal Tobias Halfway.
“Looks like we’n the last ashore, Toby, best get ours all on up the beach. The rest of the Regiment is up and over, musterin’ for a rollcall, shouldn’t wonder.”
Deakin’s friend of long, long, standing, looked along the beach and saw the last of the 105th Foot coming ashore, through the now exhausted surf.
“You’m right, Jed, I’ll just mooch on up an’ push ‘em along a bit.”
“Hold hard a mo’, looks like we got company, of two sorts.
Deakin had looked both up and down the beach and had seen the Senior Company Sergeant, Obediah Hill approaching from one direction and their Captain, Joshua Heaviside, simultaneously approaching from the opposite. Whilst Hill was simply big and round, with pronounced ginger whiskers, Heaviside’s build made him appear short and squat, when he was, in actuality, above average height. He was clean-shaven, at least for one hour of the day. The heavy jaw and grim mouth could justifiably be shaven twice each day and, with this being Noon, now showed seven hours of growth. Hill arrived first, as he had hurried to do so, and all three non-Commissioned Officers came to the attention together and waited for what each knew was inevitable.
“If the Lord delight in us, then He will bring us into this land, Numbers 14, verse eight”.
It was Deakin who responded, as was usual, to a Heaviside Bible quote.
“Yes Sir. I’m sure the lads all see’s it that way, Sir.”
Heaviside looked at Deakin as though he had just received a response from the most devout of his Parishioners and gravely nodded, then he turned his mind to the task at hand. As usual, his orders were brief, to the point and reflected his taciturn attitude to all things temporal.
“Get the Company ready to move. I fancy we’ll not be staying here long.”
Three “Sirs” rang out in unison as Heaviside proceeded along the water’s edge, considering how the scene chimed best with which appropriate passage of The Bible, his stocky figure being followed by the eyes of the two Sergeants and the Corporal, but not without affection. Heaviside, for all his lugubriousness and perpetual Bible quotations, was well liked by his men. Besides thoroughly knowing his trade, he had led them well in past times of battle and was always found alongside those of the front rank; which was easily good enough for them.
***
The two most Senior Officers of the 105th were at that moment in deep conversation, walking past their men setting up camp, subconsciously examining the state of each of their men as they came up and passed them by. Both were currently unconcerned with the military situation now pertaining, more reminiscing of campaigns past, for both were veteran Officers; Colonel Bertram Lacey and Major Padraigh O’Hare. Lacey was the taller, O’Hare more muscular, but both bore the marks on their faces and in their eyes of hard service, not least both carrying iron grey hair. Both were middle-aged and had been recalled from retirement to lead the 105th, when they were but a Battalion of Detachments and the threat of an invasion led by Napoleon was large and ominous. It was Lacey who began the conversation.
“Outside of my experience, this, Padraigh, but not yours I fancy. How does this compare?”
O’Hare had landed with Abercrombie in Egypt in the year 1801, whilst, contrastingly, almost all of Lacey’s service had been in the American Wars. O’Hare answered in his usual lilting Irish tone.
“Sure, now wasn’t this worse? The Med doesn’t often boil up as this did for us today. Us in the 28th got ashore with barely a damp boot in the year one, but this was altogether different.”
“What do you know of casualties?”
“The Lights lost some, being first ashore. Two, I believe, but the whole army, about a dozen, just under, I’ve heard. All men, no horses, and no guns, for which I’d fancy the General’s grateful.”
Lacey nodded.
“Where’s Carr?”
O’Hare pointed to a section of dune further up towards the river mouth.
“That’s
his, all down this side of the crest, with him and his two, standing on top.”
Lacey studied a while, seeing the three Company Officers, and he was also able to see that his Light Company was now stood down, almost all cleaning and examining their weapons. He then spoke further.
“Make sure he know’s where we are. Rations and supplies should be arriving soon, along with the other kit you ordered left on ship. I’d like the men to eat soon. I wouldn’t want Carr’s to miss out, should Wellesley want to advance immediately. Such would surprise me not.”
O’Hare nodded. Thorough preparation and attention to detail were Lacey’s hallmarks and he, himself, had full patience with such concerns, knowing the importance of attending to even the smallest minutiae of running a battalion of infantry.
“I’ll make sure, Sir, and also ensure that some is put by, if we are ordered to move off. It’ll be no surprise if they’re put out on picket for the column.
Lacey changed the subject.
“We’ll be called by Fane soon.”
“Yes Sir, I don’t doubt at all that the Brigadier will have one or two things to say.”
Lacey nodded whilst idly watching a group of Grenadiers wringing water from their stockings. He changed the subject again.
“What about “the followers”? Always the last.”
Lacey was referring to the camp followers, the few, chosen by lots and their ability to be of use on campaign, that accompanied every Regiment. All were wives, either Common Law or legal Church and also the children of serving soldiers. No Officer had brought his wife, though each had the option. O’Hare looked at the Westering sun and the ocean beneath, the stretch nearest being still full of boats bringing guns, men, material and supplies ashore.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 2
