A well-appointed stable was the billet of Chosen Man John Davey, Miles, Pike, Zeke Saunders, John Byford, and Private Leonard Bailey, an “Old Norfolk”, taciturn and dour, but a good man in a fight. As the first three settled to boil their salt beef and peas, augmented by gifts of sausage, Byford returned to their billet with his messpot full of very hot, aromatic and, seemingly, very appetising stew. Miles was the first to enquire what it was, suddenly in umbrage over what he was plainly missing out on.
“What’s that?”
Byford hurried on to Saunders and Bailey.
“Portuguese stew. Pork, beans, sausage, and something called tomate. That’s the red element contained therein.”
“How’d you get it?”
Byford set down the cauldron in front of his messmates and looked indulgently at Tom Miles, which did nothing to ease his mood.
“It’s amazing what currency is gained in foreign parts by a few gee gaws and some odd bits of coloured ribbon!”
Tom Miles looked daggers at Private Byford, who had clearly worked a move that he, himself, would have been thoroughly proud of.
“How’d you make yourself understood?”
Byford returned a querulous look.
“Before we sailed, I bought a book, “A Treatise on the Portuguese Language”, I thought knowing a few phrases might prove useful, and so it has transpired.”
Tom Miles evil look turned to contempt, but it was benign, and comradely, containing no deep animosity.
“Book learned bastard!”
The reply was a small laugh as the stew was spooned out, but Tom Miles knew his due.
“Well, give us all a taste, then!”
Some was deliberately left over and carefully apportioned between Davey, Pike and Miles. All agreed that it was “estufado comida” of the first quality; they each had soon discovered from Byford the Portuguese words for “stew food”, but Miles had not finished.
“How come this lot got out before the Frenchers showed up? Did you find that out?”
Byford nodded.
“Well, as best I understood, the French massacred a place called Evora, down South. The story has spread, and when they knew the French were coming, they got out, each and every one, taking all their stores and food up into the hills. That’s why they’re being generous now, that’s my guess, for us keeping the French at bay.”
Miles took a swig from the wine bottle.
“I’ll drink to that.”
They were spending the night in Alcobaca, the pronunciation of the name again taught carefully by Byford.
“The last ‘c’ is said ‘th’.”
This produced yet more surly comments from Miles.
“Too bloody clever by half. Brain that size is like to get his head blown off!”
…
Chapter Two
First Encounters
The army woke at the customary dawn but did not march immediately. The order came for all soldiers to be checked, ready for combat, and rumours spread that the French may still be nearby. In response each Section of the Light Company was inspected by their Sergeant, a prefect opportunity for Ellis to annoy Miles by inspecting every inch of him, pulling at straps, and finally thrusting a feather into the touchhole of Miles’ Baker Rifle. The fact that it came out clean did nothing for the satisfaction of either; Ellis would have preferred it dirty and Miles was wholly affronted at the very idea that such an important part of his weapon required inspection in the first place. However, both then counted the confrontation as a honourable draw. Davey’s inspection was far more cursory; he dwelt thoroughly within Ellis’ regard and respect. Joe Pike’s was equally brief; Ellis trusted Davey to get him up to the mark!
The 105th were on the road, ready and waiting when Fane rode up and halted before Lacey and O’Hare.
“I’ve sent out all of the 60th and the 95th as an advance guard. As I’m sure ye’re aware, the French were here just before we arrived and reports say that they’ve withdrawn to a place called Caldas, about one hour ahead. Proceed close enough to give the Rifles immediate support, should it be needed. In close column, ye may need to quickly form line, facing ahead, if they get into difficulties. General Spencer’s Brigade is right behind ye.”
Lacey and O’Hare both saluted and Fane pulled his horse around and rode off. Lacey looked up the road, then at O’Hare.
“Get them formed up, then march off, quick time. That must be the Rifles, up there.”
Both could see the green clad figures, now far ahead and almost out of sight, their uniforms adding to the affect of the distance, them now blending with the olive groves, but Lacey had more concerns.
“Send out Carr’s two sections either side. I’ll feel better with someone out on either flank.”
Soon, urged on by O’Hare, the 105th were setting a good pace down the road, with their Light infantry either side in the flat, dry fields. Carr was in the centre, with the Battalion Bugler, “Bugle Bates”, both being on the road and just in front of O’Hare. They saw nothing of the Rifles, not even when they came to Caldas, wrecked and looted as Alcobaca had been, but at least not burning. No civilians could be seen.
They passed quickly through and Lacey, riding back and forth on a good mare, was pleased to see Spencer’s Brigade holding the distance between themselves, but still a good way back, they must have started sometime after the 105th. Caldas was left behind and they pushed on through open country. Deakin was not happy, marching swiftly besides Ensign Rushby, but it was to Halfway that he spoke.
“Them bloody Rifles, they must be keen as mustard to meet up with the Johnnies, too keen, they’m stretchin’ out too far. It can only end bad, with good lads dead, that’s how I sees it.”
Halfway’s worried face showed that he agreed. Meanwhile at the head of the column, remaining just ahead of O’Hare, Carr was thinking the same, but, for now, keeping it to himself, being content to push forward to catch up with the advanced Rifles. Another small village came into view and the 105th now seemed definitely to be drawing nearer to their advanced guard, who were now closing up their files in front of the village, as if for an assault. Suddenly, they saw the white smoke of gunfire, then the sounds of combat reached them and Carr stopped and whipped out his Dolland glass to see the detail. The Rifles were advancing forward by files, the leading man firing, then the next advancing past to stop, fire and load. Some green shapes were already lying on the grass, some still, some writhing in agony, but the attack was being pressed forward.
O’Hare reigned in his horse besides Carr. He was worried himself and, being unknowing of what was ahead, he was unsure of what to do.
“Carr. I’m assuming that the Rifles will clear that village and stop. That would be prudent. Lead the column through with your Lights and secure the far side alongside them, if they do what’s sensible, that is, to halt and hold. I’m riding back to relay that to other Captains and to the Colonel. Your thoughts?”
Carr was surprised that he should be asked, however obliquely, to pass judgment on his superior’s orders, but he saw no cause for concern, other than that which they both shared; what would the Rifles do?
“A safe assumption, Sir, I would’ve thought. So, as you order, Sir.”
The two exchanged salutes and O’Hare turned his horse to ride back, leaving Carr to lead the Regiment into the village. From the village came the sounds of heavy fighting, but no soldiers of either side could be seen.
“Bates. Call them in.”
Bates licked his lips and sounded the notes of recall. The two sections came rapidly back to the road and formed into a column. Soon they were passing the casualties of the conflict, first their own Riflemen, then, inside the village, more and more French, with a few British casualties, some of both dead, some grievously wounded and probably dying, some lightly wounded and trying to tend themselves. All the unscathed Riflemen had passed on and, judging by the sounds ahead, they were still fighting. It was but a small village, Brilos, Carr assumed it was called, this
being written on the most imposing building alongside the Church. He came to the final outskirts and saw what he hoped he would not. The Rifles were out and beyond, in the open fields. He halted the column, but gave no order to take defensive positions, realising that they may well be ordered to march on, in which case they needed to remain closed up, as they were and ready to hurry on. He was grateful when both O’Hare and Lacey came riding up.
“The Rifles have pursued further, Sir.”
He felt the need to state the obvious, but he noted the consternation on the face of both his superior Officers. Lacey spoke his concerns.
“They’re going to meet more than they can deal with and be sent tumbling back, most likely. Us remaining here may be too far back to give them aid. It’s safe for us, but we will not be supporting them. Spencer is some way back, but I feel we must go forward; you’d agree O’Hare?”
“I do, but what’s best? What formation?”
Carr, with the advantage of knowing the situation before Lacey and O’Hare, had been giving the problem some consideration of his own.
“Sir, may I suggest dividing us into our two wings, then advance in firing line, one behind the other. If the Rifles are forced back, they can form on the advanced half, and, thus supported, that wing can hold against any French advance for a short while, then fall back upon the second, stood waiting as a final rallying point. The two now together forms a full line. Add on the Rifles who should have rallied and soon after General Spencer should be up. Sir.”
Lacey and O’Hare looked at him, then at each other. The judgement was made in an Irish accent, with a resigned intonation
“Sure, that’s as good as anything I can think of.”
“Right, first five Companies forward and into a double rank firing line, then advance. Final five, the same, but three hundred yards behind. You’ll lead the first line.”
Both saluted as Lacey rode off to tell all elsewhere. O’Hare looked at Carr.
“Then onward, Captain. You take left of centre, Number Three the centre and the rest as they come. Quick time, I think.”
The column trotted forward and the formation was changed quickly and perfectly, this much to O’Hare’s satisfaction, viewing all from the height of his horse.
“Ah now boys, fine work, fine work indeed! The Prince himself would be clapping his bejewelled hands together at the very sight. Then raising a glass or ten to the toast of the green of the Wessex!”
Each company, most laughing at O’Hare’s humour, swung off the road, in column of fours marching right or left according to O’Hare’s directions. This initially placed each Company, as they halted, in a four deep firing line, but the rear two ranks ran further on to extend the line of the front two. Waiting left of centre for the line to form, Joe Pike was stood beside John Davey, Tom Miles behind in the second rank. Scattered casualties, mostly French, littered their field and before them was a dying Frenchman, his cheeks and eyes already sunken. He could barely lift an arm, but he did and also manage a croak.
“L’eau, pour l’amour de Dieu. L’eau.”
Tom Miles was in no good mood.
“What’s he want?”
John Byford was two files away.
“Water. He says he wants water. For the love of God!”
Joe Pike set the butt of his rifle on the ground, pulled around his own canteen and stepped forward. He had not taken two paces before he was halted by a deep Yorkshire growl.
“Hold tha’ place!”
Pike stepped back.
“Leavin’ of the ranks; that’s a floggin’ offence!”
The voice was unmistakably that of Sergeant Major Gibney, who now stood immediately before Pike, looking down into his face, from a distance of mere inches, mouth, eyes, brows and chin all regulation furious.
“Tha’ knows!”
But Gibney straightened, turned and took himself to the dying Frenchman, to pull the Frenchman’s canteen from under the prone body and give the man a drink.
“Merci. Merci.”
Gibney nodded and propped the canteen against the man’s side, then marched on to his place at the end of the line.
In two brief minutes O’Hare commanded a closed up, two deep firing line, of just over 400 men, extending 200 yards. He sat his horse before the centre, drew his sword and motioned his men forward. Deakin, beside Ensign Rushby in the centre of Number Three, knew full well what should have happened already.
“Time to break out The Colours, Sir. You too, Mr. Neape, Sir.”
Consternation came over the face of both; this would now have to be done as they marched forward, to pull off the long leather cover at the end of the awkward flagstaff. Finally, clumsily, it was done, but not without the aid of both Colour Sergeants. There was little breeze but just enough, just enough to extend both huge squares of colour out above the heads of those who bore them. On the right was the Union Flag with its centre a circle of olive leaves and the roman numerals CV; this carried by Rushby. On the left was the Regimental Colour, a square of bright emerald green, but not entirely, for it had a Union Flag in the top corner, the top quarter nearest the flagstaff. The bright green matched the facings on all cuffs and button stripes, the Regimental Colour of the 105th, chosen by the Princess of Wales. Now, with all as it should be, they dressed their ranks and marched forward, but now with no embarrassing confusion.
“All set then, Sir.”
Deakin spoke cheerily, for, across from Rushby, Ensign Neape was not looking at all well, but he was cheered, after a fashion, by Captain Heaviside, marching at his side.
“Be not moved away from the hope of the gospel, Colossians, 1, verse 23.”
Neape looked askance at his Company Captain, unsure of the correct response, but at least it distracted his mind from the sights waiting ahead.
Soon, they had advanced forward almost half a mile and the sounds of skirmishing were still coming from ahead, but, without warning, the sound intensified as if from a set piece battle, whole battalions in volley fire. Veterans, including Carr, O’Hare, and Deakin knew what this meant, but it was Deakin who spoke out loud.
“Right. This is it.”
O’Hare raised his voice without turning around.
“Halt.”
A slight pause.
“Load!”
The neat appearance of their formation broke as each man began the process of loading their weapon, a 20 second operation, maximum, for a competent soldier, the seconds of which O’Hare counted.
“Shoulder arms.”
All weapons went to the vertical, supported by the butt cupped in the palm of the right hand.
“Lock on”
The rear rank shifted slightly to the right to now enable them to see between the heads of the front rank. O’Hare dismounted, sent back his horse, then stood and waited while Carr looked over his shoulder and through the heads of the two ranks behind him. Lacey was doing the same for his “wing” of the battalion. Of Spencer’s Brigade there was no sign. Carr faced his front and saw what he knew was coming; the Rifles were pouring back and a long rank of blue French uniforms could be seen beyond, seen through the gaps in the Rifles disordered ranks. Another volley from the blue line saw more Riflemen fall, but the survivors were soon ordering themselves into files of three and they began a rapid and orderly retreat, still keeping up an incessant, if light, fire upon the French line. Soon all Riflemen were in retreat and ran quickly back to the 105th, not to run past, but to extend their line. Highly trained soldiers all, they knew what to do and quickly formed two ranks and their numbers doubled the length of O’Hare’s ‘wing”, half the 105th.
Gibney, out on the left, looked with great displeasure and disgust at the scruffy, powder stained Riflemen forming up at his side.
“If I ever sees thee again, make sure thee has th’sen far more gradely in appearance than now, thee shoddy bag of bobbins!”
The Rifleman took no notice, being far more concerned to load his Baker Rifle. This done he looked at Gibney.
“You a Sergeant?”
Gibney fixed him with a look that would have boiled milk, but he did answer.
“Aye!”
“Then how come you’ve no sponson, your spear? You’ve got a musket.”
Gibney leaned down until their shakoes touched.
“Dos tha’ Sergeants carry sponsons?”
The Rifleman shrank a little.
“No.”
Gibney’s gaze intensified, to one that would melt rock.
“An neither does we, in the One-Oh-Five. An’ that’s a battle honour! Tha’ knows!”
The Rifleman nodded submissively and looked to his front. Gibney allowed himself a look of further disapproval, then did the same.
O’Hare had more weighty concerns. He could only delay the French; ambition could not run any further, he could not defeat them, only hold them up and gain enough time to make their own orderly retreat back to Lacey. There were no more Riflemen before him, at least not alive and the French were nearing 100 yards, with more coming on behind. Before came their customary Tirailleurs, sharpshooters in skirmish order, whose bullets were zipping past, to the side and above, and he heard a grunt behind him and the clatter of a soldier and his equipment hitting the ground.
“Make ready!”
All weapons came to the vertical, fingers on triggers, musket muzzles now high in the air. O’Hare retreated to the Colour Company.
“Front rank, present.”
The first row of muskets came to the horizontal.
“Fire!”
There was a vicious explosion of sound, then all before was dense white smoke.
“Rear rank, present.”
The muzzles of two muskets from the rear rank came down either side of his own face. He allowed the smoke to clear a little until a vague blue line could be seen.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 6
