Therefore, it was not until the 5th that they had set off South, close to the shore. Their fleet was in sight, but the marching was hard going, over soft sand in the heat of late Summer. Portugal in early August presented herself in a garb not so very different from that of June and early July, that being hot, brown and dusty, all covered by the slow accumulation of the latter, which dulled all colour, the dust being picked up by the summer winds and deposited on any convenient surface. Perhaps April and May would seem different, the full green of Spring showing in the fields, the bright blossom of the orange groves and the more delicate, but equally welcome, blossom of the olive groves.
Fane’s Brigade was in the lead, for his contained the army’s two Rifle Battalions. The one leading was the 5th Battalion of the 60th Rifles; formed in column on the road, whilst four Companies of 95th were out before the army in skirmish order. The 105th brought up the rear of their Brigade and on each flank was their own picket screen made up from their own Light Company, Nathaniel Drake’s 1 Section placed inland, whilst Dick Shakeshaft’s 2, was placed off to seaward. Ellis marched with Shakeshaft, Carr with Drake, and Carr was thoroughly out of sorts. He was hot and tired and was just now considering removing his jacket for extra comfort, but he knew that it would be viewed as appalling “bad form” for a Captain to succumb to such informality. The one point that had made him feel better was the squelch of his boots, he had filled them with water at the last stream and so his feet at least felt cooler, but even the comfort of that was beginning to pale as the soaked skin was beginning to blister. He resolved that, at the next stop, he would change his socks but soak his shirt if he could. Thus was his mind occupied.
If any mind was occupied by military affairs it was Drake’s, him contemplating the seemingly pointless role that they played on the flanks of the army, because a thick screen of cavalry was very visible inland from where they were; groups of riders appearing and disappearing from and behind the olive trees and thick gorse. Finally, the thought would out.
“I do feel somewhat superfluous here, Henry. Our noble Horse, out there, cover any sneak approach, surely?”
Carr’s own thoughts automatically addressed the question and the answer came without hesitation.
“If Johnny does show, it’s our job to hold him up, especially if it involves some column, sneaking, as you put it, out of a valley on our flank, like that one.”
He pointed to a shallow gap in their own enveloping hills.
“The cavalry warn us, and we delay their approach, that’s our role; us, the 60th and 95th, that is.”
Drake dropped the subject, but, cheerful and garrulous as ever, he soon found another.
“Have you written to Jane?”
If, by raising this topic he hoped to cheer up his Commanding Officer, his hopes were misplaced, for Carr’s demeanour sank further.
“No. At least, not since we landed. You, to Cecily?”
“Yes. I left one behind when we marched.”
Carr nodded, merely to acknowledge, but his face remained grim.
“I got one off when we left Ireland, in response to one from her, and it was not a pleasant one; very businesslike.”
Drake looked at his friend, but said nothing. If Carr wanted to say more, he would, but Drake was not going to press for more and, after some dark looks passaging Carr’s face and the working of his jaw, more detail arrived.
“Her Father’s pestering her to marry! He’s made a few suggestions, even. It’s giving her some disquiet.”
Drake looked shocked and looked hard at Carr.
“But she says she’s resisting, surely? I mean, you two; you practically have an understanding, words of fire, tablets of stone, sort of thing.”
Carr nodded.
“Perhaps, yes, perhaps, but it wasn’t mentioned.”
Drake’s reply was instant.
“Which leaves it up to you! You are the suitor, you should plead your case.”
He paused to allow the words to be absorbed.
“She is waiting for your proposal, being a woman of quality she can do no other thing!”
He looked again at Carr, then continued.
“It’s true. You know what a hopeless dullard you are when it comes to dealings with the fairer sex. Take it from me, one who knows, being betrothed and set on a clear and unswerving matrimonial course. The thing lies with you!”
Carr turned to his companion in arms, his brow knitted in puzzlement.
“You really think so?”
Drake nodded and Carr continued.
“That I should write pleading undying affection and wonderful prospects? That sort of thing?”
“That sort of thing exactly.”
Carr worked his mouth and bit his lower lip.
“Well, the affection bit, I can manage, quite easily, but….”
Drake interrupted.
“With the right words.”
Carr nodded.
“With the right words, yes, but prospects? A Captain in the 105th, unknown but unto God and the Prince of Wales.”
“Well, that’s a start! And a good one, I’m sure we can make something out of that, at least enough to persuade her to mount a spirited resistance to anyone laying any degree of siege to her affections, especially anyone at the request of her Father, our esteemed “used to be” General that once commanded over us. You do, if you cared to take advantage of it, have a head start over them all.”
Carr worked his mouth some more, before finally managing a conclusion.
“Next billet, then, we’ll get to work?”
“More like I’ll get to work and you’ll busy yourself with the pen!”
Carr nodded and smiled for the first time that day. However, smiles had very much been the order of the day on the far side of the 105th ‘s column, where Lieutenant Dick Shakeshaft’s section was holding picket between the army and the coast. He was in the most buoyant of spirits, for this was real soldiering, independent, out and away, detached from the army, his men properly posted and looking the part. This was a description which he readily applied to himself, because all about him was as required for the full effect, sword drawn and held over his right shoulder, jacket fully buttoned, shako badge gleaming, as were his boots, at least the upper half. His veteran Sergeant, Ethan Ellis walked beside him, this not being exactly the best of disciplinary form, as Ellis saw it, but he had little choice, Shakeshaft had placed himself there, beside him. To Ellis, it made little difference at all, his task was “on picket”. He carried his Baker in the crook of his arm, that being the only static part of him, for his eyes were in total contrast, casting everywhere, trusting nothing. His over twenty years of soldiering, in all conditions possible, provided the fund of knowledge from which came the automatic answers to Shakeshaft’s almost incessant questioning. Having queried Ellis’ dispositions of the men and found nothing to argue over, his latest batch of questions concerned the possibility of meeting the French.
“What if the French were over that ridge, Sergeant, that one there?”
Ellis had already seen the ridge and was instead examining a big gap in the cavalry screen out to his right.
“If both armies know their business, Sir, and I think we can safely say that about the French, there’s no possibility of one bumping into the other, sort of blind, like.”
He took a breath, not quite short of exasperated, but this teenager would be giving orders that he would have to obey. The more this “rank beginner” knew, the safer they would be.
“If they were over that ridge, we’d have to trust the cavalry to see enough and see it soon enough. There’d be some musketry and on hearing that, we’d all stop dead, wait for orders, but expect an attack.”
“Would it be cavalry?”
“Most likely, Sir. That’s the order I’d be waiting for, Sir, “form square”.
Shakeshaft remained silent, thinking on the answer. Ellis used the pause to check on the men and found all was well. He nodded his head, pleased, all w
ere at their correct spacing, all looking out to their right and so he passed judgment, the highest praise he ever gave, “good lads, these”.
Meanwhile, at the head of the main column, back on the coastal track, the conversation was taking a similar vein. Ensigns Rushby and Neape, their Colours now being carried by their Sergeants, were asking questions of the NCO’s around them, these being Colour Sergeants Deakin and Bennet, Corporal Halfway and Sergeant Major Cyrus Gibney. The last named was amongst the largest men in the Regiment, he could meet, with no need to incline his head, a level gaze from even such as Private Ezekiel Saunders. Whilst Sergeant Hill seemed to have all parts round and bulbous, from whichever direction you looked, Gibney looked large, solid, fierce and capable. A dour Yorkshireman, his soldierlike demeanour was completed by dark whiskers which descended in clean lines from in front of his ears, to then swoop up from his lower cheeks to meet magnificently above his upper lip and below his prominent nose. Sergeant Major Gibney was the solid foundation of the whole battalion, none would question his capabilities as a soldier, nor questioned that Gibney would endure, no matter what the fortunes of war would send their way.
Gibney, for his part, allowed himself little social interaction with any of the men, but he was “Old Norfolk”, a survivor of a shipwreck, which created many “castaways” who helped form the 105th in its very beginnings. This also applied to Deakin and Halfway, and so, as often as not, on the march Gibney took his place close to these two. However, it was Deakin who was providing most of the answers, the latest question being whether or not there was going to be a battle, this from Neape, their youngest Ensign, not yet full grown nor started shaving, as Deakin would describe him, by way of judgment.
“I wouldn’t bet against it, Sir. There’s been occasions, as I’ve heard, of armies landin’, then goin’ back aboard if things looks a mite too perilous, if you take’s my meanin’, Sir, but my feelin’ is that our General won’t be shy of takin’ on the French, an’ they’ll be anxious to make an end to us, here in their Manor, on their piece of territory, if you take’s my meanin’, Sir.”
Ensign Rushby then spoke up, in conversational tone. He had been sketching, all the while, the fearsome figure of Sergeant Major Gibney.
“And don’t forget the Portuguese! We’ve come here to support them. It’ll not look good if we land, march about a bit, then go back on our ships, leaving them to face the Johnnies alone. Shameful, to say the least, I’d say.”
What visible agreement could be seen, came from Neape, sagely nodding his head, whilst Deakin, Gibney and Halfway, looked gravely ahead. Battles were not outside their experience and never anything to be looked forward to. Rushby, also, had his own memories and flexed his left shoulder, with a wound scar to both front and rear, but he had more to say.
“Then there’s Parliament. Think of the questions that would be asked, if we more or less arrived down here, padded about a bit, then slunk off and away.”
More nodding from Neape, but nothing from the remainder of his audience. However, Rushby was hoping for a contribution from Gibney. None came, so he asked for it and when it came, it finished the conversation.
“Gi’ it a week, an’ we’ll be muzzle to muzzle, never fear.”
Silence fell, filled only by the sound of their marching feet, all subconsciously in step. Deakin eased his musket and reached for his water bottle, his thoughts flying back down the column to the followers. If this march was taxing for him, what would it be like for them? He had his worries, but that was nothing unusual.
***
All the women, collectively described as “followers” had hitched up their skirts, the easier to walk without pushing at the heavy cloth and the better to keep their legs cool. All sported army issue hose and army boots, these being more like a clog than a boot, but none concerned themselves over exposing their legs to view. There were no men in immediate proximity and it would have made no difference, for all were well used to barrack life where due deference and concern for privacy existed only in their absence. All had their packs and bundles placed as carefully as any veteran soldier and all had their own water, including the children, who, in addition, all had their own bundle to carry, well supported by strapping across their shoulders. Bridie Mulcahy and Nelly Nicholls walked side by side, Mary O’Keefe a little behind with the children. Conversation, even for these, had tailed off. The heat and the soft sand underfoot was taking its toll and so each looked forward to the next halt, because the next should be a major stop, enough to brew some tea and make some porridge. None had any kind of timepiece, but Nelly, being a veteran, had marked the possible time for a break by identifying a feature in front, some way ahead, about two hours marching further on. She felt the need to check and so she turned to the wagon, following immediately behind the children and stepped out, to shout beyond the pair of horses.
“Are we due a stop yet, Parson? Can y’tell, you having the clock?”
Percival Sedgwicke pulled out from his pocket the one relic of his once comfortable life as a Country Vicar, respected and unassailable in a remote Parish. He studied the elegant hands that slowly traversed the elaborate surface beneath the glass, then, after some elementary maths, made pronouncement.
“One hour and perhaps a quarter, or more, beyond that, Mrs. Nicholls.”
The answer, including a fraction, meant little to Nelly; better to have heard the reply, “Not soon, but not too long”. A whole “one” was inside her understanding, the concept of a “quarter”, was beyond, but his tone sounded cheery enough, conveying that it would not be horribly far into the future. She looked at Bridie.
“Not long then.”
“No, not long.”
Sedgwicke eased his fingers around the reins that led down to the team that pulled their wagon. Beside him was Chaplain Prudoe and behind them both, in the shade, Prudoe’s wife, Beatrice. Chaplain Prudoe could best be described as a “soft” looking man, pudgy from any direction; face, jowls and fingers, this confirmed by a full waist that bulged against his jacket. By appearance he was mid-forties, older than he actually was, and the growing jowls beside his face had turned what had begun years ago as a look of simple seriousness into a look of stern disapproval. He looked comfortable, but somehow at odds with all around him, as though all he encountered, should naturally be a copy of himself, but rebelliously was not. Sedgwicke, by contrast, was a figure best described as thin and wispy. Whilst Prudoe’s hair was hidden under a soft forage cap, Sedgwicke sat bare headed, his thin, grey hair, tied tight in a regulation soldier’s queue at the back of his head, whilst at the front sat his narrow face, always beset by a look of concern, but he was learning to make the best of things.
Prudoe was in a quandary as to how to address his Chaplain’s Assistant. He knew Sedgwicke’s background, that he was an educated man, but he was a defrocked Priest, and, above all, a mere ranker. However, he did not doubt that he was a devout Christian, a “Man of God”, and as such, this elevated him, however slightly, above the mere chaff. Also, another factor was that Sedgwicke had been on campaign before, whilst for Prudoe this was all into the future and very unique. On the voyage down Sedgwicke had been a source of good advice, all deferentially and politely spoken, and so some form of relationship had formed between them, but, at that moment, the heat and the hard seat had ended any social intercourse almost before it had begun. However, with the strife of conflict very possible within the not too distant future, Prudoe began the questioning that had been increasingly preying on his mind since they landed.
“In battle, our role is to comfort the dying and administer last rites to the dead, that’s well understood, but you’ve been in battle yourself have you not?”
Sedgwicke gave the reins a flick, being interrogated as if a mere underling always grated upon his own self-esteem, even much reduced as it was.
“Yes, I have.”
A pause.
“Sir.”
“What else could we be called upon to do?”
&n
bsp; Sedgwicke’s annoyance was heightened by a question that he judged as wholly facile, born of pure ignorance, which an ounce of common sense could dispel. They were part of an army, that fights battles.
“Supplying the line, Sir. Water, ammunition, anything that may be needed.”
Sedgwicke flicked the rein again.
“In a fierce conflict, that will take priority over any spiritual concerns for the wounded and dying.”
A pause.
“Sir!”
Sedgwicke’s tone of finality killed off that particular topic, but the sight of a church on a hill off to their left, reminded Prudoe of an ambition he had awarded to himself upon their embarkation, now weeks back.
“I hope to make a study of local churches, Private.”
Prudoe had never used Sedgwicke’s name since they had first met and the latter found this diminution hard to cope with, especially with the instinctive status which he gave himself, despite this now being but a mere remnant of his earlier life. However, by now he had fully acknowledged that he was, indeed, a mere Private and that Prudoe was an Officer. Sedgwicke gave himself the time to form an answer.
“I’d prefer if you’d not ask me to join you, Sir. I count myself as very much Low Church and these Roman interiors are too far against the creed and customs of the Faith that I personally adhere to.”
So eloquent a reply left Prudoe in a quandary. He could order Sedgwicke to accompany him, as his servant, but on the other hand he was faced with religious conscience, which he felt bound to respect. However, being an Anglican himself, this somewhat Puritan viewpoint was one that thoroughly jarred with him.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 4
