Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2)

by Martin McDowell

  “Wellesley wants to pursue the French. They have nae undefeated troops left in Portugal, bar a garrison in Lisbon, I’d reckon. Wellesley wants to pursue them, but Burrard thinks enough has been done and caution should prevail. Tomorrow Sir Hugh Dalrymple arrives to take command from Burrard, and, from memory, they’re both horses of the same colour. Stand down Lacey. We’re here for some time.”

  His face matching the oncoming gloom, he pulled his horse’s head to one side and rode off, to convey the news to his Rifles.

  At Lacey’s order, the column dissolved, with much ill grace and even more bad language, and the 105th re-made their camp of before. With the night, darkness descended over the battlefield, but not the peace of night, nor the end of activity, some compassionate but much that was malevolent. Good souls of the likes of Percy Sedgwicke, carrying a lantern, walked the line that marked the high tidemark of the French attacks, looking for wounded of both sides, giving water, and, in almost every case, the last rites to those fated to die slowly, often using a Catholic crucifix that was pure anathema to him, but, nevertheless, it gave comfort when pressed to the lips of a dying man. Good souls like Joe Pike, hearing the continuing groans and cries for pity, spoke out, that perhaps they should go and help also. He was silenced by Tom Miles, who made it clear that if he wanted to look after wounded, he should go and help with their own, there was no shortage of them.

  But no such concerns dwelt within Seth Tiley. He had passed out through the sentry line, bribing his guard, who had proven to be as likeminded as himself, using brandy and half the booty harvested during daylight. Tiley took himself amongst the French Grenadiers, frightening off any local peasant that may have desires to pillage any likely corpse that he had ambitions on himself. A pistol butt crushed fingers, making them easier to sever to gain rings, and his clasp knife also removed any buttons of possible value; earrings were simply torn out. Where a body showed signs of life, his knife across their throat soon removed the problem. Here were pickings richer than any English hovel or even substantial dwelling, and he’d not even had the chance for any measure of looting as yet. That was still to come, so, perhaps he’d stick with this army after all. Perhaps he could count on riches more substantial than any to be gained from his previous existence as a thief, footpad and thug back home.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  A Triumph Discarded

  The dawn came with the grating argument of hundreds of rooks, ravens and crows, all eager to peck at thousands of open wounds. With no orders to move against the retreating French and the extra uncertainty caused by yet another transfer of overall command, Brigadiers concluded that the ridge may well be their place of rest for some days yet. They, therefore, ordered their Regiments to create burial parties to work alongside the Portuguese locals who had been hired for the task and rid their immediate locality of the noisome remains of the previous days conflict. However, with this in train, the inhabitants of Vimeiro returned and this was doubly welcome, not only to share the burden of burial, but also for them to offer for sale food, drink and other wares, and at affordable prices for the booty rich British army. Yet the dead were the first priority, the British dead were laid side by side in long graves, one separate for each Battalion. For that of the 105th there was no shortage of mourners for the 38 killed, and Chaplain Prudoe gave a good sermon, for all to then sing the 32nd Psalm, their own tuneful words intermingled with those heard from other nearby ceremonies, and the grave was closed.

  Not so for the French dead. Many had been stripped of useful clothing and these, in a deeper grave, were piled in layers, four or five deep. None stood to mourn them with neither solemn hymns nor prayers, save those who carried the spiritual burden of the whole army, the likes of Chaplain Prudoe, Mrs Prudoe, and Percy Sedgwicke. A prayer was said, crosses described in the air, and the grave closed. Perhaps more ghoulish than the events of the night before, at the insistence of veterans like Jed Deakin, any dead French drummer boy had been stripped of useful clothing for the children of their own army. French boots, coats, breeches and shirts were far better quality than any that covered the thin bodies of the Regiment’s young ones and so these were stored, to be carried, not worn. Deakin, and many others, had some foreboding about the months ahead and insisted that, in the warm weather of late summer, what they already wore should be used up. The heavy French drummer boy uniforms would serve better in the winter to come.

  The army remained in place, throughout the day, better making the acquaintance of the locals, all of whom offered genuine friendship and gratitude to the occupying British. Their village had not suffered what was usual from a battle raging all around, the usual being that it was razed to the ground. Bar the odd building around the church the damage was negligible and the Vimeiro residents’ own places of safety for valuables and precious items were now close to full from their own searching of the battlefield and the additional transactions with their soldier guests. On top, these British paid for what they required, rather than brutally maltreat, so that food be “donated” to Napoleon’s cause.

  Another night was spent in the same place as before, but this time in peace, save for the unnecessary challenges of the sentries, because the retreating French army was long gone. For the dawn of the following day all Regiments had been ordered to form up for the march and the 105th again formed up their column preparatory to receiving orders to get onto the road and move away. There were none of the precautions taken as for the march from Mondego and, once on the road, only the remains of the 20th Light Dragoons coursed around the head of the column, this again a seemingly endless procession now pounding the road in spirited fashion on South, to Torres Vedras. However, they had gone not five miles when the order came to halt and make camp, full camp, meaning all could assume that they would be there for some while. None complained, the heavy baggage had joined them and soon tents were springing up, substantial cooking facilities built or assembled, even areas for washing, both skin and clothing, were designated at nearby streams. The army settled to its ease and to eat their midday meal, with little to trouble it, bar the growing ranks of crosses on a nearby hillside as some of the wounded finally succumbed to their injuries. Fane’s Brigade had been again at the head of the column, as it contained the Rifles, and so they were, if the description were not a misleading, “closest to the French”.

  Suddenly, the halcyon, post meal atmosphere was shattered by a begrimed and distraught Portuguese Cavalry Officer riding into the camp, accompanied by a half dozen Troopers, all equally alarmed and ill at ease. They rode straight up to the camp sentries, these being from the 105th, to whit, Sergeant Obediah Hill, Corporal Tobias Halfway and Privates Alfred Stiles and Samuel Peters. The four barred the way, bringing the Officer to a halt on a blown and panting horse. The horse may have been grateful but the Officer was not. He was possessed of just enough English, just equal to the task of blurting out three vital sentences.

  “The French come. Make the alarm. See me the General.”

  Hill looked at Halfway, saying nothing, but easily conveying his thought, ‘What choice do we have?’ Finally he did speak, but to Stiles and Peters.

  “Find our Bugler and tell ‘im to sound “stand to”. Toby, you take this cove to Headquarters, I’ll get some lads to form some kind of forward picket.”

  Saying nothing more, he ran off to attend to his own task, leaving the other three to attend to theirs, this being Halfway to motion the Portuguese Officer forward and Stiles and Peters to run to their own lines. Within a minute “stand to” was being sounded, repeatedly, to rouse the whole camp and minutes after, whole Battalions were falling into their Companies. Hill found some Rifles and some of his own 105th and led them forward to a hedge line that topped a rise. To meet any oncoming French some 20th Light Dragoons galloped past beyond them, down the road, and disappeared through the trees, but soon Sergeant Hill had reached his own vantage point, and could look far down the road. There, indeed, were some French, these being two squad
rons of cavalry, his experienced eye told him, all led by a group of Officers, but these were preceded by a single Trooper carrying a white flag. The Light Dragoons of the 20th that had not long ridden out, were on either side, placing themselves at a respectful distance. Hill turned to those he commanded.

  “Block the road.”

  Hill stood out before his small command and watched the approach of the French, the dust being raised in clouds from the road by their careful progress, but drifting sufficiently wide so as not to mire the gorgeous uniforms of the group of Officers leading. However, one stood out, partly because he was in the lead, but mostly because his uniform was markedly plainer than those of his aides, bar the amazing embroidery around his collars. The Trooper bearing the white flag reigned in before Sergeant Hill and the prominent Officer rode past to confront Hill, him stood with musket across his ample stomach, bayonet fixed. Hill looked immovable, as was his attitude, and it was he that began the conversation, bluntly and to the point.

  “Halt!”

  The Officer, whom Hill rightly took to be a French General, halted his already walking horse, then Hill swung his bayonet to remain inches from the horses muzzle.

  “State your business.”

  The General rested both delicately gloved hands on the pommel of his saddle and looked down at this typical image of a British soldier; surly, solid, uncompromising, and be-whiskered, but he did begin, and in polite fashion.

  “I am General Francois-Ettienne Kellerman. I wish to speak to your General Wellesley.”

  Hill looked up at him, then past him and beyond, to examine his dusty escort. His face showed no compliance, but he did manage a halfway constructive reply.

  “B’aint Wellesley no more, ‘tis General Dalrymple.”

  Kellerman nodded.

  “Tres bien! Then I wish to see General Dalrymple.”

  He struggled with each syllable within “Dalrymple”, but then remained silent, his expression not angry, but open and businesslike. Hill looked at the members of the 20th, sat their horses nearby, but the highest rank amongst them was a Sergeant, as he was himself. However, relief was at hand, Fane himself was cantering up the road, with his own escort of aides. Hill and his men sprang to attention at the side of the road, allowing Fane the space to approach. Fane reigned in to regard Kellerman with something between Scottish annoyance and English disdain for a foe proven to be of so slight a mettle. However, Kellerman did salute, which Fane responded to with but a brief nod of his head, then he spoke further.

  “As I have a said to your “Sergent” here, I wish to speak to your General, I believe, called Dalrymple.”

  He managed a better fist of the name this time, but Fane’s brows furrowed further as he gave the situation some thought. Then he gave his judgement.

  “You and two others can come further. The rest must stay here, with this Sergeant and his men.”

  He rose up in his saddle, plainly not in the best of moods.

  “So! If ye’ll care to follow me.”

  Kellerman looked behind him and spoke rapidly in French so that when he rode forward, but two came forward to follow. Hill, his men, and those of the 20th, stood looking at the French Troopers, but within five minutes they were all exchanging wine, brandy and tobacco and, soon after that, all were smoking or drinking contentedly.

  Within an hour the army had returned to its state of domestic tranquillity, meeting its own concerns, both spiritual and temporal. Prudoe and Sedgwicke needed to discuss the best way to conduct a burial service for a Quaker who had just died of his wounds, whilst most attended to the maintenance of their kit, or the welfare of their families. Bridie and Nelly Nicholls were attending to the extra bullet holes in The Colours, Joe and Mary just sitting holding hands.

  Come the end of the evening meal, Ellis, Davey, Miles, Pike, Saunders, Byford and Bailey were now on guard, out with the French escort, these by now devoid of any alcoholic drink; all having been exchanged for tobacco. The light was failing, but not by so much as to hide movement back at the British lines, which caught the eye of Davey, who stood up to see more, which gave the signal for the others to stand. A French Sergent de Cheval was dismounted and lounging with them in the midst of a line of smokers, so Byford decided that he had better give him a nudge.

  “Je pense que votre Général est retourné.”

  The Sergent levered himself away from the wall that had been his support and called to his comrades, whilst emptying his pipe. Within a minute all were in the saddle, formed up and waiting. Ellis also got his men into line, to await Kellerman and his two escorts, cantering up alone. They rode straight past Ellis and his men and gave not a glance to their own men, who immediately turned their horses to follow. Davey and Byford had studied the General as he rode past and Davey spoke first.

  “’Tain’t often you sees an enemy General this close up.”

  Byford nodded.

  “Nor one that has just been so thoroughly defeated, but is now looking so thoroughly pleased with himself!”

  ***

  The British army was moving South, very much in good spirits. Through whichever town, village or hamlet they passed, the inhabitants came out to greet them, effusively, these red coated “soldados” that had thrown the French out of their country. All knapsacks bulged with bread, cheese, fruit, wine, and dried meats of all kinds. Few could remember the time that they had eaten so much and most had taken to eating on the march, for, in the next village, they would be able to fill their knapsacks again. All was good humoured in the ranks. Many had heard that a Treaty had been signed and enough of the details had emerged to form the topic of conversation for almost all social groups that the army contained, including one particular Mess of the Light Company, now well down the road to Lisbon. As usual it was Miles who began the argument, in his usual belligerent tone.

  “There’s some as don’t agree with this Treaty job……. what’s it called, Byfe?”

  He had been failed by both his memory and his pronunciation, but Byford spoke indulgently and slowly from the rear.

  “The Convention of Cintra”.

  “Just so. What you say. Well, I say that anyone who don’t see the sense of avoidin’ a battle, perhaps more than one, must need ’is bumps felt!”

  Unusually, it was Byford who answered.

  “I take it from that, that you hold the opinion that anyone disagreeing with said Treaty should be examined for levels of insanity?”

  Miles did not turn around, he merely smiled, the “levels of insanity” part he understood.

  “’Sright!”

  Byford nodded indulgently, but none spoke further. Miles permitted himself a smirk of satisfaction at having begun and ended the argument himself. Meanwhile, back amongst the column, the Convention was the most common topic of conversation; all knew that it was to be signed that very day. Typically in Number Three Company, amongst the Colour Party, Ensign Rushby felt the need to consult someone as a means of expressing his own concerns, but, intimidated by his own deeply devout Company Commander, he spoke instead to the only oracle he had regarding the machinations of an extensive campaign, this being Colour Sergeant Deakin. He looked across at the veteran on his right hand side, automatically matching his own footsteps.

  “This Treaty, Sergeant, or Convention. You’ve heard?”

  Deakin did not change his expression, nor change any part of his marching gait.

  “Yes Sir. I have, Sir.”

  Rushby hoped for more but none came.

  “What is your view? Many are for, many against.”

  Deakin eased the sling of his musket over his shoulder.

  “Well Sir, from what I’ve heard, we’n allowing the Johnnies to march out of the country, with their arms and their booty, and, on top, we’n takin’ them away in our own ships, to let ’em off at a port convenient to them. There’s plenty as would be none too pleased with that! Sir.”

  His tone showed that there was more to come and so Rushby remained silent.

 
; “On the other hand, it cleared them out of the whole country with no need for to fire but one more shot. There’s them as says we could’ve rounded ’em up an’ shipped ’em back home, but who’s to say they might’ve then not holed up in some fort or somesuch, leavin’ us to lay siege or even storm the place. An’ most sieges involves disease of some sort, both inside an’ outside the walls. If you asks the lads, most’ll say that clearin’ out the Johnnies by the signin’ of no more’n a bit of paper beats clearin’ ’em away by defeatin’ ’em on a battlefield. Sir.”

  He re-hitched the straps of his backpack, then his chinstrap, then strode on. Rushby pondered his words for some small time, then offered his own thoughts.

  “But don’t you think there’s an issue of honour here? I mean allowing them, as you say, to walk out, under arms, with all that they have stolen, and then be carried, free of charge, in our own ships. Many would say we have acted cravenly, that we are reluctant to meet the French again.”

  He paused, finding the right words.

  “That we would prefer to sign a dishonourable agreement!”

  Deakin smiled humourlessly.

  “It seems to my mind, Sir, that honour as you describes it, is a concern only for them as carries the King’s Commission. If you was to ask the lads who stands in a firin’ line about honour, the nearest thing you’d get to it, is some words about not lettin’ your mates down. We knows that winnin’ keeps the most of us alive. Battles b’ain’t funny and doin’ the job by makin’ a bargain suits the most of us as carries a musket, beggin’ your pardon, Sir.”

  Deakin’s argument from the point of view of the ranks seemed to silence Rushby, but as usual, marching close to The Colours, was Sergeant Major Gibney. Rushby looked over to him.

  “Sergeant Major Gibney, would that be your view?”

  Gibney’s jaw clamped together and his eyebrows closed together before he answered, very carefully.