“Sir.”
Spoken around an erect sword.
“And your One Hundred and Fifth!”
He adjusted himself in the saddle and smiled down.
“Not so Provisional now!”
“No Sir.”
Wellesley nodded.
“I hope I will have the honour of serving with you and your men again, at some future time.”
“Thank you, Sir. We hope so too.”
With that Wellesley urged his horse onward to the quayside. There he dismounted, walked the gangplank to board his ship and then his horse joined him, but hoisted aboard using an under-sling. The Regiments on parade remained at the “present” until nothing could be seen, only active sailors releasing the vessel from its moorings.
***
The parade was the high point of the week, the following days being barely discernable from each other, a procession of clock chimes and changing of the guard, each more monotonous and dreary. However, perhaps time did not sit so heavily upon the 105th, because their Colonel had both experience and proof of the old adage “The Devil makes work for idle hands.” In obedience to this, he had his men more often than not up in the Campo, running to a mock battle, their opponents being no more than a set of whitewashed posts with whitewashed rope between, but, even though winded from their run, he required them to blow the construction apart with ten volleys, which they often did, always for longer than three minutes, but always well within four.
Carr gained permission for his command to sometimes remain out in the hills for an extra day, to learn and re-learn the skills of surviving in the open, with the late September wind and rain now beating upon then. The potential of a cold soaking added urgency to the need for solid, windproof, if not wholly waterproof, shelters, each section being taught the technique by ex-poacher Chosen Man Davey. Exercises were practiced, with One Section opposed to Two, not with live firing, but the men being moved as on a chessboard. Shakeshaft proved to be a capable player and, although often out-manoeuvred by Drake, each time was far from being a foregone conclusion, nor a quick checkmate. Miles, as part of Drake’s section, would glower from behind his wall or tree at the uncouth signs sent his way by many in Shakeshaft’s 2 Section, all of who took extra delight in “winding up” the easily aggrieved Miles. However, both Lacey and his two Majors were not in any way aggrieved to hear, as they marched back to Fort St. George, “Brighton Camp” being sung by the whole Battalion. It had caught on, with even the Officers singing, as they marched out before their men and all sang lustily, such that the inhabitants of the villages they marched through, often came out to applaud.
Nature abhors a vacuum and so, with the fateful decision now made, the tedium was filled enthusiastically by preparations for their choice of entertainment, now decided. So that, once back within the Fort, preparations moved on apace for the production of Sheridan’s The Rivals. The young females, Lydia Languish and Julia Melville were easily identified as Rushby and Neape respectively, but Lucy the maid and Mrs. Malaprop were far more problematical until Major Simmonds volunteered for the former and then, after some persuasion, so did Major O’Hare, for the latter. Many were of the opinion that a Mrs Malaprop with an Irish accent would add some extra spice to the performance. The alternative, being a vacuum of mind numbing inactivity, gave added impetus to rehearsals that took place each evening, often long after “Lights Out.” D’Villiers had found enough within himself to accept a part, despite Carravoy’s disdain for the whole affair, this springing from, although D’Villiers did not know it, Carravoy offering himself for the part of Captain Jack Absolute, yet only being offered the part of Thomas – a servant. This of course he turned down and he was even more discomfited when he learned that the hero was to be played by Nathaniel Drake. Similarly, the men of all three Regiments were not left behind in creations of the arts. The musicians of all three, fiddlers, squeezebox men, drummers and fifers had coalesced into a very proficient orchestra, rehearsed by Lieutenant Ameshurst, who proved to be a more than proficient musician himself upon the erstwhile Portuguese Royal Guard piano. Many a jolly evening was spent by the men and the camp followers, with singing, dancing and the odd solo. Even Carr relented from their night-time manoeuvres in the Campo, getting his men back to the Fort to play their parts, whichever they happened to be, in whichever artistic company.
Lacey and O’Hare were now far more comfortable regarding the mood of their men. Their manoeuvring and fire drill were of the highest order and the evenings’ “good old sing-song” as many described it, often had O’Hare himself joining in, in fact leading, with rousing Irish rebel songs. In addition to the upbeat in tone, the dead hand from on high was about to disappear, for they had heard that both Burrard and Dalrymple were now recalled to attend a Board of Enquiry into the Convention of Cintra and thus it transpired, both Generals boarding the fast frigate HMS Amphion on the bleak, final day of September. There were no farewell parades, merely the noting of the void now at the top and who was to fill it. The answer came the next day, conveyed in the form of Brigadier Fane.
“Moore, unless they send someone superior. Sir John Moore. Ye’ve heard the name?”
Both Lacey and O’Hare nodded.
“But not met?”
“No,” came with the same co-ordination as the nodding, but this time both heads were shaking.
“I have.”
Fanes brows knitted together.
“I think he can be described as “modern”. He wrote the training manuals for my Rifles, but how it’ll work out with him in overall command, weell, that’s for the future.”
A similar conversation on the possible overall situation of the army was developing in a Lisbon cantina, not far from Fort St. George. Lacey, in better humour himself regarding the humour of his men, had relented, partially, from confining all to barracks, to the extent that non-Commissioned Officers were allowed out into the town. By chance, on previous occasions, those NCO’S of the 105th had encountered those of the 20th East Devons, who had fought beside them at Maida, so the bar was now a regular haunt for both and the news had spread of Moore’s appointment. The discussion group was formed of Jed Deakin, Toby Halfway, and Obediah Hill from the 105th, whilst from the 20th, all were Sergeants, these being Able Lines, Michael Bridger, and Tommy Vickers. All were very different in stature, from the corpulent Hill to the small and wiry Vickers, but all had the hard look in their eyes of men well versed in their trade and the thorough knowing of that which turned the odds of life or death in their favour. It was Bridger of the 20th who could speak with some knowledge of Sir John Moore.
“I was speakin’ to some of the Rifle lads as was trained by him at Shoreditch. He’s no flogger for a tarnished button, was how they put it. Somethin’ about havin’ to look to yourself, “self discipline” was the words.”
The “old school” Obediah Hill put down his beaker of wine.
“Well I don’t see how that works! There’s no Regiment in the Army as doesn’t give their Sergeants a sponson to poke men back into line if they looks like steppin’ back. That’s the kind of discipline that we ’as now, backed up by the rope and the lash!”
Deakin looked across at him.
“’Cept we hasn’t got no sponsons!”
Hill looked back.
“Well, no, we carries a bundook, an’ a bayonet, on account as at Maida we was still spatchcock Provisionals.”
Bridger set his beaker on the table, he was still on the topic of his Rifleman.
“Now that’s what I said, but he speaks of these Rifle lads, and any Light Infantry too, as havin’ to fight independent. They ’as to sort theirselves out, ’cos often there’s no Officer ’andy as to give ’em orders. So, as he put it, you ’as to shift entirely for yourself, which means that you ’as to make sure that all your kit and such is fully up to scratch. They fights in threes, so, if you’m off with just two more, in a file, no Officer, then it’s fully up to you if you comes out of it.”
Deakin had list
ened carefully.
“He’s right, Obediah. ’Tis ’as he says. You saw them Rifles dancin’ about, out in front when they French columns was marchin’ up at Vimeiro. An’ I saw, even if you didn’t, how they took care of them guns, and, on top, kept them French sharpshooters back. Bein’ stood with The Colours, in the middle, like you, for that I’m doubly grateful. Seems to me that any man as can come up with decent notions like that, ought to be as good a commandin’ General as any.”
Now Vickers leaned forward, the candlelight glistening on the scar along his jawbone.
“But we’ve lost Wellesley as made good use of such know-how as that. You was with him from the off. We only come in for Vimeiro. What was he like?”
Hill and Deakin spoke the word together.
“Hard!”
They looked at each other and grinned, but it was Deakin that continued.
“Hard! Some was strung up for lootin’ and he had no mind to worry about our creature comforts when he knew the French was near. Mind, I’ll say this for’n. He’s no man to go straight at ‘em, an’ damn the butchers bill. He tried to winkle ’em out at Rolica, with lads way out on the flanks. On top, that’s the first General as has put me safe behind a hill ’till the last moment and that’s what he done at Vimeiro. I’m no looter, so what he does to them vermin I care not, but if he does what he can to preserve my skin, then I’ll take’n again, soonest, as the one to be in charge.”
Hill spoke again.
“I’ll not argue, but that’s all by the by. ’Tis Moore now, an’ we can only hope that he’s a horse of the same colour, ’cos no-one can convince me different, that soon we’ll be off. Out of here to find a Frog army!”
Now Lines spoke for the first time.
“What about these Frenchers? How do they measure up to those we saw off at Maida?”
Hill guffawed in contempt.
“No different! They can’t stand our musketry for no more’n a few minutes. Just like then.”
He sat forward for added emphasis.
“You saw it yourself, back at Vimeiro.”
It was Vickers who replied.
“No, we never, at least not close. We was up on the hill behind you, an’ never fired a shot. Our Rifles an’ Lights went down to take on that Frog column on the road, but that wer’ about it.”
The three East Devons nodded, but Vickers continued.
“We saw not too much of the detail, hardly any at all.”
Then Hill continued, perhaps with the drink talking as much as himself, the sentence borne as much from emotion fuelled by alcohol as rationality.
“Now listen, for I d’tell ’ee.”
He set down his glass heavily. He spoke into silence.
“There b’ain’t no Frog army anywher’ that I has any fear of! Even with the odds on their side! They’ve got no stomach for what we deals out, line to line. None at all!”
He sat back, content with the image he had created.
“An’ I’ll say one more thing, there’s few in this army, amongst them as stands in the line, that is, as thinks any different!”
In the silence, Deakin gathered their beakers for a final drink.
***
Chapter Five
March and Counter-march
Fane and Lacey sat side by side, both feeling uncomfortably hot in the hot room. Although the second week of October, the weather remained typically Portuguese, seasonally warm, such that many had scandalously undone the top two buttons of their tunics, the company there gathered being the highest Officers in the now named Army of Spain. So far, throughout the occasion, there had been little to occupy them other than their own conversations and the long distance viewing of several maps and charts that occupied a significant fraction of the walls around, many disrespectfully covering the portraits of the great and the good that had ruled, or misruled, Lisbon for the past hundred years or more. Many maps had long reds lines marked over them, a large one of Spain had several blue circles and the rest, fifteen in all, were in the form of lists. From a distance their titles could be read, to show that, five Divisional Commanders had three each; “Beresford”, “Paget”, “Fraser”, “Craddock” and “Hope”, this making up the fifteen. However, below the headline titles, all was indiscernible, but both the appearance and the size of each was plainly different, this determined more by shape rather than by analysis, but military etiquette required that none stand and leave their place for closer examination. The arrival of their Commanding Officer was imminent and so each remained firmly in their place, though curiosity burned within each, especially Brigadiers like Fane, wanting to see which Division they were in, whilst Colonels like Lacey irked to see which Brigade had claimed them. Their impatience was interrupted by an Aide de Camp.
“Attention!”
All stood as General Moore entered. He had been confirmed as their overall Commander the week before and he had lost no time in consulting with all his General Officers, and more besides, so the result of their planning was now close to disclosure. Moore moved, as though somehow beatified, through the bright morning sunlight funnelling through the back windows and Lacey could, at last, gain some impression of his new Commander in Chief. He saw a man in his late thirties, somewhat mournful of countenance, fair hair above a fresh face, but eyes that carried a depth of intelligence that radiated confidence into the room. Moore waited for all to resume their seats before beginning. He stood behind a desk, resting forward on arms that extended from powerful shoulders. When he spoke, it was with the faintest of Scottish accents.
“Gentlemen, you may have already heard, but I am saying this in confirmation, that, on 1st August the Spanish re-occupied Madrid and promptly set up a new Government. However, the French are now massing at Miranda on the river Ebro, little more than two hundred miles to the North of Madrid. My orders are to support this new Spanish Government and, to that end, we are going to advance into Spain.”
He paused to allow the murmur around the room to subside and recreate the silence of before, then he moved on.
“We will advance as four Divisions, each along a different route, to re-combine at Salamanca; the Divisions and their routes being as follows.”
He then left his table to deliver a detailed description before each map and chart. Detail was the operative word. He made no use of notes, but the depth of his talk was impossible for each member of his audience to memorise, save for the occasions when their own Regiment, or name, was mentioned. However, when all left the room, they left with the impression of being about to execute a thoroughly thought out and carefully considered plan of campaign. Apart, that is, from Lacey, because the 105th were on no list, but, at least, they were not on that headed by “Craddock”, whose Division was to remain in reserve in Lisbon.
Meanwhile, down at the harbour side, two pairs of British eyes were looking into about two dozen, even more mournful eyes, these being those of mules looking out of several pens, all well filled with such animals, eyes all staring back at whichever human was regarding them critically. The word had gone out amongst the population that the British were buying animals and so hundreds of such beasts of burden were being unloaded after a journey down the Tagus. Another type of “word”, not official, but via the Brigadiers privy to Moore’s deliberations, was that the army was going to move and that each Regiment was to organise its own transport, which then divided out into each Company. Thus Miles and Davey, accompanied by a Portuguese Cacadore, a Rifleman of that Army, were despatched to buy six for the Light Company. Davey was there for his agricultural experience, Miles for the bargaining, the Portuguese for the translation.
Davey entered a pen, crowded with animals and picked out six, which were hauled out by both himself and Miles for them to then be tethered outside the pen to a rail. Miles looked at the Cacadore, whilst pointing at the herdsman.
“Call him over. Ask him how much. Each!”
The Cacadore shouted something and the herdsman came over, to be asked the important questio
n. The answer came immediately.
“Vinte e dois. Cada mula”
The Cacadore looked at Davey.
“He says twenty four. Each mule.”
Davey looked at Miles.
“Twenty four. That’s 144 the lot. Sounds steep. Do we have that?”
Miles nodded, then looked at the Cacadore.
“Offer twenty.”
The Cacadore did, but the result was the herdsman throwing up his hands and walking away. The two looked at each other and Davey sighed.
“It’s a seller’s market and he knows it. We’ve got to get six, we’ve got the money, and it’s not coin from our pocket. Let’s pay and get back, they’re good beasts, none old and all male. We’ve got here early and got the pick.”
Miles nodded, his eyes narrowed, he was suspicious. He looked at the Cacadore.
“Call him back.”
The Cacadore did so and the herder returned, but it was Miles who spoke.
“Ask him again.”
The answer came back as before and the Cacadore translated as before.
“Twenty four, each mule.”
The result astonished Davey, for Miles seized the jacket of the Cacadore at the shoulders and pushed him back against the pen rail.
“You chiselin’ sod! Four is quatro, which I b’ain’t ‘eard not once!”
He turned to Davey, whilst still pinning the shocked Cacadore to the woodwork.
“Get the herder to write it down.”
Davey produced paper and pencil and motioned to the herder to write on the blank page, using some of the few Portuguese words he knew, plus what he had just heard.
“Cada mula. Quanto?”
The herder took the pencil and paper and wrote, then showed it to Davey. It said “22”. Still holding the now terrified Cacadore, Miles looked as well, then back at his prisoner.
“You workin’ some scheme? You gettin’ a rake off, somehow?”
The result was a vigorous shaking of the Portuguese head.
“No, is not true. I say wrong. I am sorry. Si, much sorry.”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 21
