Deakin looked up the alley himself to see one set of boots protruding from a corner.
“Nothin’ we can do. Dead bodies is for some other cove. All we can do is get these down and afloat.”
Taking his cue, Toby Halfway led them on.
Once relieved of their even more relieved charges, Deakin took his men back to Fort St. George to report to Captain Heaviside.
“Two Frenchers, Sir, had their throats cut afore we could pull ’em out. They’n down in the alleys somewher’ but I’d never find the place again, Sir, it bein’ such a warren down there.”
Heaviside nodded.
“You did your best, Colour Sergeant. Duty done. Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. John 16, verse 33.”
Then, for Heaviside, he did something Deakin would never have predicted. He reached down besides the leg of the table at which he was sat and produced a bottle, plainly not of wine, more probably a spirit, most probably brandy, and once that was placed on the table, there appeared two tin mugs.
“Here, take a drink with me. This has been a bad business, but done well. “Fear God, and keep His commandments: for this is the whole duty of man”. Ecclesiastes 12. Verse 13.”
With that he poured a little into the first cup, then much more into the second which he handed to Sergeant Deakin.
“Good health to you, Sergeant!”
“And to you, Sir.”
Deakin drank, then passed the cup onto Halfway, who raised it in Heaviside’s direction before drinking himself, then passing it on to Stiles and Peters, who also raised it to their Captain. Heaviside then ended the interview.
“Now get some sleep. “The sleep of a labouring man is sweet. Ecclesiastes Five, verse 12.”
The following day the two bodies were found evilly mutilated, but rumours were coming in of similar ill treatment meted out to the French all over Portugal, as they made their way to the various coastal ports for their embarkation. It was spoken with much satisfaction amongst the local population that the French garrison of the border fortress of Almeida, whilst on their march across Portugal, had suffered so many men being picked off, that they had taken to the interior of a Convent until a whole British battalion arrived to escort them further to the sea and safety. Similarly spoken of, was Oporto, where the Portuguese own Lusitanian Legion had to be used to prevent the local populace from boarding the transports and slaughtering every Frenchman aboard. Therefore, as compensation, the infuriated citizens of Oporto seized and plundered the French baggage still remaining on the quayside. Perhaps predictably, few amongst the British army when hearing of this, particularly amongst the 105th, could muster within themselves too much concern and even less sympathy.
Whilst the arrival of the British had been the cause of much celebration, the final departure of the French gave cause even more so. For three days the Portuguese celebrated with dancing, feasts, illuminations and more fireworks; presumably replacements had been made anticipating the need for this second occasion. Any British Officer or soldier found in the streets was immediately whisked away to be the guest of honour at some party in a local square, or wide street. Colonel Lacey, mindful of the events that befell Private Thomas Miles, forbade anyone to leave Fort St. George, but most were content to watch from the high battlements of their castle. The said Miles, Davey and Pike included themselves in this crowd, Joe Pike with Mary permanently clasped to his arm, her condition now beginning to show. Miles’ “capture” had been the source of much amusement throughout the whole battalion and he was still being ribbed for it, but, eventually, even he had seen the funny side.
“I wer’ set down afore the Altar an’ showered with water an’ a lot of mumbojumbo, afore they carried I back outside an’ I got dumped on the steps”
Also, he was not in any way put out to be given a share of someone’s rum ration in return for once again relating the story.
***
Tedium soon set in, with rancour hard on its heels. It was now mid-August and the British army, in and around Lisbon, had settled into routine, a routine too close to strict, as dictated by Dalrymple, whilst he busied himself with organising a new Government for the whole country of old Portugal. Shackled under his orders to remain in and around Lisbon, almost all were growing bored and short-tempered, impatient as much with themselves as with the local population. Arguments, even fights, between themselves and local civilians were frequent, for the local merchants and shopkeepers saw this huge influx of potential customers as a business opportunity not to be repeated, rather to be exploited for full profit. On top, as was common the world over, many civilians were both suspicious and alarmed by the presence of so many ‘men of war” and, in addition, the extra demand generated by these extra thousands of customers was inflating prices.
For the 105th, and their neighbours of both Rifle Regiments, the square outside the main gate to Fort St. George soon became a regular marketplace and the soldiers of all three Regiments also saw prices creeping up. Sergeant Major Gibney, mindful of the growing likelihood of trouble, organised the non-Commissioned Officers whom he trusted, to make regular patrols and this, unsurprisingly, included Jed Deakin and Toby Halfway. Being on the spot, when the occasions arose, both themselves and Gibney felt it best to deal out their own measure of justice or provide their own common sense solution, rather than let any dispute drag on officially and inevitably fester into ill feeling on both sides. On one such patrol it was not long before they heard raised voices, shouting in both English and Portuguese. They hurried around to the next rank of stalls to see one of their Grenadiers in vigorous dispute with the Portuguese stall-holder and the Grenadier was growing more angry and more liable to strike out. Deakin hurried up.
“What be the problem?”
Seeing the Sergeant’s stripes, the Grenadier stepped back from the stall-holder.
“These oranges, this bloody shyster took my money, then gave I these, just gave I half the number from three days before an’ one’s rotten. Now he won’t put nothin’ right!”
He looked daggers at the stall-holder, whilst Deakin looked at both.
“That’s his price. Doesn’t thee want it?”
“No.”
“Right, put the fruit back on the stall.”
The Grenadier did so and Deakin now looked fully at the stall-keeper and spoke from amongst the few words of Portuguese he did know, spoken with all the authority of his rank.
“Devolva o dinheiro.”
The stall-holder looked angry and reluctant. Deakin spoke again.
“Devolva o dinheiro!”
The stall-holder was reluctant to give back the money and lose a sale, so he removed the rotten orange and added two more. Deakin looked fiercely at him, incensed by the rotten orange first given, and he held up one finger, whilst pointing at the pile. He thrust the finger forward for added emphasis. Another orange was added, so the Grenadier scooped up the pile and departed, as did Deakin and Halfway, after a withering look at the aggrieved stall-holder.
“I don’t like the way this be goin’, Toby. We’d be better off out in camp, or in some barracks. This cheatin’ and chiselin’ will bear more trouble, 'specially when drinkin’s involved. I don’t like it; could end up with lads on the end of a rope.”
“You’m not wrong. Haven’t we seen as such afore?”
Both nodded as they walked on and, as time passed, their concerns, added to those of others, reached the ears of Lacey and he, knowing the full picture from all sources, decided that he had no recourse but to confine the men to barracks when in Lisbon and to also take his Regiment out to the Campo; the bleak, hilly plain close to the Northern outskirts of the city. This he did and there he kept his men fit and in sound wind, practicing a new firing drill, whereby the two wings of the Regiment would fire independently, controlled by O’Hare and Simmonds. He had concluded that his men stood too long at the “make ready”, most were closer to four reloads a minute than three. He wanted a system that enabled them to fire more often and this w
as not all he wanted introduced. When back in barracks, with the men confined, Lacey asked for suggestions for a “Regimental song”. Finally he decided on “Brighton Camp”, although under the alternative title “The Girl I left Behind Me”, it was becoming more well known, and so each Company was “drilled” in the singing of what was considered a good marching song. To Sergeant Major Gibney, the order to sing was the same as an order to polish their brass buttons – there to be obeyed.
“Tha’ sings! Either a song comes out tha’ mouth, or tha’ teeth! Tha’ choice.”
Many of a deeper Religious persuasion considered that a stirring hymn would be more appropriate, but Lacey would have no truck with any such suggestion and, in fairness, the likes of Prudoe and Sedgwick harboured no profound objection, bar one deeply Spiritual Soul, that being one Captain Heaviside, who could suggest several hymns of an uplifting spiritual nature, but, to his surprise, his suggestion fell upon deaf ears.
Lacey’s final choice sparked thoughts in the emotional reaches of the minds of Drake and Carr, but, inevitably, that of Drake first.
“We must write. Who knows where we could be, even next week. Have you had a reply from Jane?”
“Yes. Last week.”
Drake looked inquiringly and waited, but nothing came.
“Well?”
Carr took a deep breath.
“Well. She says that there is nothing that she wishes more, but she doesn’t know how we are going to overcome the desires of her Father. It seems that he would want her to marry anyone other than me; when reading between the lines, sort of thing. She doesn’t actually say that, but it’s there, I’m sure.”
Drake looked overjoyed, but said nothing; he simply spread his hands as if to say ‘Well there you are, then!’
However, Carr did not share his enthusiasm.
“Well, yes, but ……..”
He paused, as if unable to voice his concern, but the words did come, welling up from his own anxiety.
“There’s nothing about waiting, nor being prepared to persuade her Father otherwise, or even defy him.”
Carr let out something between a gasp and a sigh before continuing.
“I don’t feel encouraged.”
His face took on a downcast look by two or three levels, but Drake, sat forward; he had now become exasperated.
“You’ve not got the grasp of this at all!”
He sat even closer.
“Look! What’s important? That she says she wants to marry you is what’s important. As for the rest of it, well, that’s up to you and her to work something out. Between you. Together.”
Carr looked up at him.
“Really, you do think so?”
Drake stood up, nodding the while, and went over to their escritoire and brought back pen and paper.
“Right. A reply, and lay it on thick, “undying love”, “constant affection”, “you will overcome together”, all that, and lots of it, said twice, then a third time, in a different way!”
Having given Carr the necessary, he shuffled his open palms towards him, urging him to “get on with it”.
Carr smoothed out a piece of paper.
“Have you written?”
Drake nodded vigorously.
“Yes, but as yet unposted. Get that done and ours will go together. I will delay mine, for which I expect your gratitude. Imagine how Jane would feel if Cecily received a letter and she did not. It would be a catastrophe beyond magnitude concerning the national romantic affairs of the heart!”
Carr was ignoring him; he had begun to write, the words being followed by Drake, who began to grin enormously.
“Good, good, exactly so. I do believe some improvement can be ascribed to you regarding the art of romantic letter writing.”
Carr ignored him, he was now struggling to compose the next sentence.
Also in the building, but in a different room, Major Simmonds, Lieutenant Ameshurst, sitting with Ensigns Rushby and Neape were obeying another order from Lacey, in a similar theatrical vein to the Regimental Song. They were to consider some kind of entertainment or production to keep the men, particularly the Officers, occupied when in barracks. The four were sat gloomily around a table, heads supported by one hand, the other poking and pulling at the supply of literature that they had gleaned from amongst the more erudite members of their Officer Corps. No one was saying anything. Inspiration, even half-suggestions, were very slow in coming, in fact more conspicuous by their absence.
Meanwhile, in yet another different room, but the same building, reading was the predominant activity, not writing. Carravoy and D’Villiers were reading together a broadsheet of The Times, the paper spread between them. From time to time each pointed to a particular phrase that they felt the other should pay particular attention to. D’Villiers finished first, and sat back, thinking, whilst Carravoy proceeded to the end, then he threw his hands in the air.
“We are vindicated! At home, the Convention is regarded as an absolute scandal. Dishonourable and shameful! Just as I said to Fane, and there it is, writ large!”
He then began to read the article again, his brows knitting closer together with every line. D’Villiers sat patiently waiting for his pronouncement and when it came it was again explosive and unequivocal, born as much from the memory of the privations that Wellesley had ordered for their march to Rolica, as from the legitimacy of the furore back in England.
“Damn Wellesley! Damn “Sepoy General!” I hope he’s hauled before a Board of Enquiry. Sure to be, and thoroughly censured for it, signing that damnable Convention.”
D’Villiers just about managed to pluck up the resolve to argue, but it came more as a bleat than a retort.
“Well, …..”
He pointed to the article.
“……. this looks more critical of Burrard and Dalrymple, and Wellesley was ordered to sign by Dalrymple, and he did beat the French!”
Carravoy was now staring straight at him, evidently not pleased with what he was hearing, but D’Villiers, to his credit, had more to say.
“Twice! Which is more than both the Austrians and the Prussians have managed to do, over years!”
Carravoy’s reply left no room for counter argument. He was at full temperature.
“Luck! Sheer luck. He got lucky. I’ve never heard of such ludicrous tactics as the French employed back up North. We’re shot of him and he deserves all the censure and…. and …… condemnation he receives. In good measure, I sincerely hope.”
D’Villiers lowered his head and turned the paper to another story.
Coincidentally, in his Office, Lacey was also reading, or more accurately passing a letter over to Major O’Hare for him to read. Lacey sat silent and waited for O’Hare to read the brief missive that had come from Brigadier Fane. O’Hare laid the letter down on the desk.
“What choice do we have?”
“None. Send the word around. Prepare for full Ceremonial Parade.”
Within the hour all letter writing, self congratulating, and producing entertainments had ceased, in order to respond to the order from their Colonel. The day following was to be a full parade. Wellesley was going home on leave and the reason had gradually become known; that he felt himself wholly superfluous with two Generals superior to himself already there, ordering and organising, three including Sir John Moore, newly landed with a fresh Division. Brigadiers Fane and Acland had both agreed that some kind of farewell was required and a Guard of Honour seemed to be most appropriate, made up from the Regiments that had served Wellesley particularly well, these being the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, the 2nd Battalion 52nd Oxford and Buckinghamshire Foot, the 95th Rifles and the 105th Foot The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment. The order was greeted by groans amongst all belonging to the four Battalions, because Ceremonial Parade meant the wearing of the hated stock, the stiff black leather collar that held their heads erect and immovable. Duty in England meant its frequent use, but abroad they were forgotten at the bottom of their back
packs, until now, when they were fished out and glowered at, before being polished.
The mid morning on the day of departure, 20th September, saw the three Regiments lined up, two deep, Colours flying. The day was chilly and blustery, unseasonable for a Portuguese day in early Autumn, but the sun made its presence felt through several gaps in the racing clouds, its bright light highlighting, then diminishing, the unmistakable colours of both uniform and Colour Party. Being the least senior, the 105th were the final Battalion in the parade and O’Hare walked the length of the battalion, impatient, but pleased with the appearance of his men, all well turned out despite two battles and much marching before, between and after. He stopped alongside Simmonds, him at an equal level of irritation and willing to give vent to it.
“Typical Army. We’ve cleared the French out of this country, yet there’s armies still in Spain we should be taking on, all no better than the ones that we saw off as though they were no more than an irritating fly. Instead, our Commander meddles in local politics. And what’s the response - hold a parade!”
O’Hare grinned. He had a strong liking for Simmonds, knowing him a capable and effective Officer, in addition the valuable Battalion expert on fortifications and sieges.
“What would we be doing, now, instead of this?”
Simmonds nodded. He knew that O’Hare’s question was the obvious reply, but he made one of his own.
“More of twiddling and kicking. Thumbs and heels respectively.”
O’Hare grinned again, but movement had caught his eye and so he hurried back to the centre to take his place behind Lacey’s right shoulder. Wellesley, mounted but with just a single servant riding behind, was approaching. Lacey judged his moment.
“Parade!”
He had gained their attention.
“Parade. Present arms!”
Muskets were swung from shoulders and The Colours were lifted to sit erect in their holders. Wellesley slowed his horse to a walk, then halted before them, the fourth Regiment he had seen so far.
“Lacey!”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 20
