“Off, and get tha’ canteens filled. From the spring, if tha’s a mind.”
All three nodded vigorously and turned to leave Gibney to pull Tiley up to the Colonel’s table. Gibney saluted.
“Beg pardon, Sir. Private Seth Tiley, Sir, has been returned to us. Just off the transports, Sir.”
Lacey studied Tiley for a good few seconds, a gaze that Tiley could not meet, but instead cast his eyes to the trodden grass.
“Tiley!”
Tiley looked up to hear Lacey’s words, spoken as though cast in iron, wasting no time with any niceties.
“One thing, Tiley, for you to remember, the first thing you do against army law and you I will hang! Whatever it is, the slightest or the smallest. We are in the presence of the enemy, Tiley, it requires but one word from me, but one word, and we leave you swinging from a tree!”
He continued looking at Tiley who had again averted his gaze, then Lacey turned to Gibney.
“Take him to the Grenadiers. Tell Captain Carravoy that he is to be tethered and guarded each night and, when on duty, put him with a Corporal with orders to shoot him at the slightest suspicion.”
Gibney saluted and made to leave, taking Tiley with him, but Lacey held up his hand.
“Tiley.”
The silky threat in the softly spoken word once more gained Tiley’s attention.
“Tomorrow or the day after there will be a battle. Serve your place in the line, as your comrades undoubtedly will and no one will shoot you. And perhaps the French won’t either. Perhaps!”
He paused to allow his words to be absorbed, then nodded for Gibney to leave, but not before acknowledging a blistering salute. Meanwhile Davey, Miles and Pike, were off down the road, hoping to get to the beach and to actually do what they had used as a poor excuse to Sergeant Major Gibney, to fill their canteens from the pure spring. However, they were now sure that all hope of entertainment had passed and also they found their progress blocked by a column of infantry advancing up the road, so they were forced to stand aside and wait for them to pass. With this gone, they progressed on down, whilst the infantry continued marching up, to soon approach the camp of the 105th, which sight caused Jed Deakin to look up. He studied the column, then recognition grew within him. They had broken out their Colours and this confirmed his thoughts, these including the pale cream yellow of their Regimental Colour.
“Hold up. Toby, look who’s arrived.”
Halfway looked up, as did “The Twins” and Deakin continued.
“That’s the 20th. Them good lads from Maida. We should go down, say a few words.”
With that he rose, as did the three he had spoken to and then several others, who also recognised the Regiment who had supported them at a desperate moment during that battle. Deakin and his companions went to the road and stood waiting, but before any discourse, as between rankers, they must allow the Colour Party and the Senior Officers to pass, but, with them passed and gone, it began.
“All right lads? Done well since Sicily? Been anywhere’s special, somewhere where you was welcomed? Anywhere?”
Several heads turned, but only one spoke.
“Who’re you?”
“The Hundred and Fifth. The Fifth Provisionals as was. We marched off from Maida together.”
Recognition came within the ranks and all was smiles, but the banter soon began, first from within the 20th.
“It’s the “Rag and Bone Boys”, now done up in smart green. You now some kind of “half-arsed” Paddy mob? What’s it like, yer, in this Portugal?”
Laughs and smiles.
“Just as hot, but the locals is just as friendly. Plenty of fruit, wine and good water, but you might need summat to trade with, these is canny farmers.”
“Who’s yer Brigadier?”
“Fane.”
“Never ‘eard of him. Ours is Acland.”
“Never ‘eard of ‘im! But the Frogs is more lively this time, it’ll take your best.”
The conversation, with one participant moving quickly, was necessarily short, but it was cheerful and warming for both sides, cheering to be re-united with men who had fought alongside them, men who had stood up, as they had themselves, to desperate peril. Each had supported the other and together, they had emerged victorious and, as they marched away, they had shared precious water on a baking field.
The men of the 105th stood to watch and exchange more good-natured insults with the last files and, with their passing, they returned to their own camp. Cheered by the event they returned to their fires and, as the day progressed, their situation became yet more comfortable, even salubrious. The valley was sheltered with numerous trees and contained clean water, but, best for them in their situation, was the arrival of locals with carts covered in all varieties of the provender so often denied them on the march: fruit of all kinds; meat and fish, smoked or salted; fresh bread, cheese and vegetables; and, of course, wine, a rough red. Soon all messes were enjoying the best meal they had eaten since arriving in the country, all diners praising not just the quality, but also the generosity of the local Portuguese. Few coins had been required to obtain the food which soon found its way into every mess pot in the camp, including those of the Officers and, even these soon became used to the taste of the wine and found their teeth less set on edge. For the rest of the day, all was peace and tranquil in the camp of the 105th, all enjoying the bucolic, even holiday, atmosphere.
Carr, Drake, and the ashen faced Shakeshaft all sat on various sections of tree trunk, hauled into position by Morrison, to make a kind of circle around the now dying cooking fire. Their third beaker of the local “red” was, at last, not now tasting quite so acid, and even seemed to be perking up Shakeshaft, the alcohol dulling the pain in his head. Carr took another drink and this time his mouth did not contort quite so much as last time, although his teeth still felt the affects. The idyll of their surroundings was turning his thoughts to home.
“Morrison! Did you get that letter away which I gave you the other day?”
Morrison did not pause from his domestic duties.
“Yes Sir. It went with despatches before Rolica. That was when you give it me. Sir.”
Carr nodded and looked at Drake.
“It was a good letter, was it not?”
Drake pursed his lips and nodded gravely.
“I feel so, yes. In fact I’m certain. I would certainly think so, the number of times you drafted and re-drafted. But the kernel of the matter was made plain, to whit, your commitment, undying affection and the fact that only she, her, can make you a happy man. That made the mark, plain and clear, the rest is now up to her.”
An unpleasant thought suddenly entered Drake’s head, one that he would not put past the likes of Henry Carr.
“You did include that sort of thing, did you not?”
Carr nodded vigorously whilst setting down his beaker for another re-fill.
“I did, yes, I did. Those were your specific instructions, were they not?”
“They were, and of the highest import.”
He looked up to see the three Grenadier Officers passing by; Carravoy, D’Villiers and Ameshurst. The wine was working up Drake’s natural bonhomie and he raised up their carafe.
“Gentlemen, would you care for a glass. What’s at the bottom is slightly more palatable than what’s at the top!”
Only Ameshurst grinned at the ridiculous comment, whilst the remaining two remained stony faced. It was Carravoy who answered.
“I thank you, but no. Wine somewhat closer to vinegar than anything remotely drinkable, does not lie within my taste. Perhaps some other time.”
D’Villiers had not even looked in their direction to acknowledge the invitation, but Ameshurst felt able to accept and did so, joining Drake on the log, and happily accepting a beaker from Carr, which Drake filled. The ensuing conversation between them was cheery, non-military, inane and not a little drunken.
However, if there was a discourse within the whole camp on any level
of serious content it was taking place around the wagon of Chaplain Prudoe. His wife, Beatrice, had the Mulcahy clan assembled around her, plus Nelly Nicholls, and it was she that was merrily describing the life of a camp follower, about which Beatrice Prudoe knew nothing, from which grew her deep fascination. Nelly Nicholls soon pronounced her judgement.
“Sure, it’s not so bad, to follow the army. You’re with your man, to keep an eye on him, and ‘tis better than losing the draw and staying in barracks. I say “stay”, ‘cos sometimes they throws you out, into some God Forsaken camp, under tents, without too much thought on the weather.”
Beatrice Prudoe’s brows knitted.
“The draw?”
“Yes. You draws lots to follow the Company. About six to ten families comes out, and only them as has childers as can help goes into the hat, in the first place. All mine can, as with Bridie here. We’ve been lucky and come out twice, but there’s not that many families in the 105th that goes into the hat. Most has babbies and such, or little more than.”
Bridie nodded vigorously.
“She’s got the right of it. ‘Tis better to follow, an’ put yourself forward, despite the hardships. Here in the sunshine, ‘tis more healthy, is what I’m thinkin’, to bein’ stuck in a stinkin’ barrack. I’ve heard tell of men returnin’ home to find their loved ones dead, died of gaol fever or somesuch, when they themselves’ve come out whole from a battle!”
She sat back to arrange her arms under her bosom.
“Out here, there’s fresh food from the locals, like now, and army rations when there’s nothin’ else.”
Mrs. Prudoe remained spellbound.
“But you march with the army. You must keep up, in all weathers.”
Nelly Nicholls fashioned the reply.
“Ah sure, but you get used to that, and, as often as not, we gets left behind, if there’s fightin’ comin’ up. That’s a rest, you understand.”
She had a further thought.
“An’ sometimes they marches back to us. We don’t do the same distance as themselves, if you understands me.”
Beatrice nodded, but continued with a new subject.
“But the danger to your husbands. You could be widowed. Easily.”
Both Bridie and Nelly grinned broadly, and knowingly, but it was Nelly who spoke.
“Ah sure, you get used to that, too! Bridie’s on her second and I’m on my fourth! If your man gets kilt, ‘tis not long before another makes an offer, sometimes two or three of the pantin’ sods!”
Nelly slapped her hand against Bridie’s arm, inviting her to share the mirth, but it was already there. Beatrice Prudoe smiled at the gales of laughter.
“I must say that you are extremely resilient. Whatever comes, you cope. You have my admiration.”
“Ah well, there’s not too much of a downside, but there is some. We are under military orders, you understand, just the same as our men. We have to do as we’re told, and, whilst they can be flogged, so can we. Not yet, in my case, but close, a couple of times. Same for you, Bridie?”
Bridie nodded.
“I’ve heard and seen, but as for meself, no, not yet, and I hope not ever.”
The gentle wife of the Chaplain sat back shocked, her hands falling into her lap. Bridie prepared some more bread and butter, whilst the Chaplain himself, returning from his rounds and seeing his wife now in the society of camp followers, abandoned his return to the wagon and strode off, hands pointedly clasped behind his back, for another tour of the camp. The children played quietly, practising their letters in the brown dust and Mrs. Prudoe, pleased at the sight, but still shaken by the revelations of their Mothers, sliced some oranges and lemons for them to eat. When the youngest found the lemons too bitter, she corrected that with the help of some sugar.
***
The order came at 6.00 in the evening, shattering the surreal atmosphere of peace and tranquillity to quickly bring all back to reality. Everyone was to be in position before dawn the next day and so the army immediately prepared for bed. Carr, as a Captain, had been called by Lacey to hear the written orders now arrived and he was immediately questioned by Drake on his return.
“Where are we?”
“On the ridge above Vimeiro. Far left.”
“Not in reserve?”
“No. Front line and right in the way!”
Drake nodded, knowing what that meant, and rolled himself into his blanket, besides Shakeshaft and Morrison. After but a few hours and very pre-dawn, Sergeants and Corporals went around the camp to wake their charges. Bridie woke with Jed Deakin to “bring im up” with a “drop of tea”, whilst Jed himself, threw water on his face and donned his full kit. Nearby, Miles, Davey and Pike were doing the same, Joe Pike the last, for he spent much time kneeling by Mary. Now aware of his attention, she fully opened her bleary eyes
“I should get up, make you some breakfast.”
“No, you stay. Tom’s doing that. I’ll be fine.”
He smiled at her with all the tenderness he could muster.
“That’s fine for me. His cooking’s coming on, you know.”
This was said loud enough to produce a scowl and an evil look from Miles, but a full smile from Mary. Joe pulled the blanket up further.
“You stay there, get all the rest you can. We may have to move soon and keep going. Bridie will take care.”
He stood up and took the mug of coffee from Miles, to be followed by a thick slice of bread covered in last night’s stew. Soon, and almost too soon for them to consume their food, the bugles sounded “fall in”. With their dying notes, Mary did rise to hug Joe fiercely, whilst Bridie and Jed shared a gentle embrace, which was soon transferred to the children. The 105th fell in and marched off, towards the faintest blue beyond the hills to the East.
They passed through Vimeiro, this a well appointed and prosperous village, made up of solid whitewashed houses and a tall church on a mound off to the left, but throughout the village all was quiet and deserted, save the odd hungry and curious dog. The inhabitants had left; an army nearby meant strife and conflict, right on their doorsteps, so no lights showed behind the shuttered windows set deep within white walls. Their ancestors had chosen a spot to build on that stood sheltered from the Atlantic storms and winds from the North, but now bitter winds blew from the East in the shape of conflict borne out of French ambitions throughout Europe. When this wind blew, there was no kind of shelter.
Soon, after the village, they were climbing a steep hill, but on the ridge, above the village and in position held just back from the crest, the 105th stood to in the lessening gloom. With the full dawning of the day the order came to stand down and wait, but to remain in position on the rear slope, therefore the men, in their two deep line, sat, lounged and talked, whilst the sun rose and the heat grew.
Within the full light of morning, Carr, Drake and Shakeshaft, took themselves to the brow of the hill and examined their surroundings. The 105th were on the far left of the British line that was holding Vimeiro ridge, making the Light Company, on the left of the 105th, at the very end of that line. Before them was a shallow valley that became deeper as it ran down to their right, but on their left the valley began, at a track that used the extra height to run out of Vimeiro that was behind them, to then curve around the head of the valley and lose itself amongst the distant olive groves and vineyards that girded the ridge opposite. This ridge was similar to their own and, presumably, stood waiting to be occupied by the French, whilst behind them, if they turned to look, could just be seen the bell tower of Vimeiro church, marking the position of the village itself. The three looked across the valley but made no comment, until the questions came, inevitably from Drake.
“What does he know, d’you think?”
It was Carr who answered, Shakeshaft had not a clue as to the answer and, besides, he felt out of sorts, but more from the wine of the previous day than from his experience at Rolica.
“I take it you mean our esteemed General. Well, as far as I
can ascertain, we are stood here because he knows that they are coming, to find us. When they are coming he seems not to know, he seems to have got that wrong. After all, they are not here!”
He took out a white kerchief and took off his shako to wipe his brow, fully exposing the two scars, now livid with the heat. He let out a long sigh.
“Find Morrison. Get him to make some coffee, or tea or something. The same for the men. Noon’s not far, and they’ve had nothing since breakfast. Whatever’s in their haversacks, let them eat it! If we’re still here come evening, we’ll get some more rations brought up.”
He placed his shako on the ground, swung his sword away behind him and sat on the ground to contemplate the slope in front. Drake and Shakeshaft also sat near to look at the same, but it was Carr who expressed their thoughts, as much to raise confidence within them all, as to reassure the novice Shakeshaft.
“They’re coming from the South, so they’ll have to come up that slope.”
He paused.
“Very open.”
He paused again, as if carefully finding the next words.
“That’s a long way, for any army, in any formation.”
Again he paused, looked at his companions and smiled.
“Especially against the likes of us!”
Just then the coffee arrived with slices of fresh bread. Morrison had anticipated Carr’s order to take food before Noon and he had brought extra, this being three local fruit, of a type unknown in England. Drake was the first to bite and his face expanded in pleasure.
“I say, Morrison. These are rather good. What are they called?”
“It sounded like “pessaygo”, Sir. So I’ll continue with that.”
“Continue indeed. Whenever you see some, buy some. You’d agree?”
He was looking at Carr but he was too busy dealing with the juice running down his chin. Shakeshaft was on his third bite.
Meanwhile, one hundred yards along the line, refreshment was also being taken but by others of a higher ranking order. Brigadier Fane was stood with Lacey and O’Hare, alone on the ridge top, studying the Rifles of Fane’s Brigade positioned in skirmish order down in the valley. The 105th sat in their line behind where the three stood, every man now eating or drinking. Fane took a drink from his spirit flask and passed it to Lacey.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 11
