From not too great a distance, Bentinck could be taken for Wellesley, a long nose, an inexpressive mouth, but up close he resembled a Public School Headmaster, disdainful and disapproving, which emotion he bestowed from high upon all that he came near, as he turned his horse, here and there, before and beside his column. Lacey had not warmed to him as he had to Fane, but was content to reserve judgement. Bentinck’s pirouetting of his horse was only stilled as they began their march, out from the sheltering elegance of Salamanca and into the bleak weather of the endless uplands of Western Spain. At the Eastern Gate stood a hooded figure, black from head to toe, sprinkling Holy Water from a silver bucket, mumbling incessant prayers, whilst a young boy shivered beside him in choir uniform, his blue hand waving a huge incense burner, whose issuing smoke blew not over the marching men, but up and over the walls to be lost against the blue and iron grey of the clouds over them all.
***
It took not one day before rumours began to circulate; there had been a cavalry action up ahead; Boney himself was commanding the French facing them; there had been another Spanish defeat. The march forward took them through a town called Rueda, where some captured French cavalry sat miserable in the square, guarded by some Riflemen, but no more signs of conflict were seen and the rumours subsided as the army marched onwards. Each evening, Deakin and Pike took themselves back to the followers to check on their welfare. At first Joe Pike carried back a portion of his own rations to add to that for Mary, but he was soon told to stop, partly by Bridie, but mostly by Nelly.
“You’re a marchin’, fightin’ sojer, ya gombeen eejit! You eat, Mary needs you whole, hearty and strong, not some weak-kneed, worn out pune!”
However, what reassured Joe Pike the most was the fact that Mary was riding in the Chaplain’s wagon, as insisted upon by Beatrice Prudoe. Even Jed Deakin himself began to feel marginally more reassured. He was worried, as Carr had been, about the weight of the extra clothing and food that the followers were asked to carry, but felt much better when Bridie showed him the contraption that she had made back in Salamanca under the tutelage of Lacey, some days past now, in the church.
“The Colonel saw them used when he was in the Americas, used by the natives. He called it a ‘travois’. You load it up and all you have to do is pull, like a sledge. 'Tis much easier than a heavy pack and the poles slides easy over the mud, like the runners on a sledge.”
Both Deakin and Pike returned to their messes and slept easy.
The following days merged one into the other, this reinforced by the unchanging weather; rain and wind, cheered occasionally by a watery sun that warmed their backs and threw their shadows onto the damp chalk of the long, straight roads. A week after leaving Salamanca they marched into Mayorga and gratefully into warm billets once more. The population of this innocent Spanish town was even more sparse that that of Salamanca and for the same reason; the rumours that arrived from the East telling what happened when the French marched in. In his billet, Heaviside found a map and brought it to the building that rejoiced in the unwarranted title of the Officer’s mess. With the map spread on the table, before the meal, all stood poring over it, tracing the route of the past week and locating their position at Mayorga. Major Archie Simmonds straightened up and looked askance at the map.
“We seem to be circling Madrid, but the radius is getting wider.”
Carravoy was in no good mood, this intensified by his personal privations on the march. He felt no need to defer to rank, especially to the Junior Major.
“And to what end, I say? This is taking us further into the mountains. That may protect us from the French, but it just leaves us here freezing and not firing a shot, but dying anyway, of cold! And, from what I hear, La Romana’s Spaniards aren’t worth the boots they’re stood up in.”
O’Hare had entered the room and, standing at the back, he had heard all.
“From what I hear, Charles, they have no boots at all, yet they’re ready to put up a fight!”
The gathering around the table parted to allow him through. He looked at Carravoy who showed no embarrassment, more like anger at the counter argument, nevertheless his Lordship waited for O’Hare to say more.
“Look at the map, Charles. What they call this, what we’re doing, is manoeuvring. True we are edging away, but that prevents us being cut off from the coast.”
He placed his finger on the two important points.
“From the port of Santander, or even Corunna, if needs be. Meanwhile, our cavalry, although unpredictable in a fight, are well mounted and are out gathering intelligence of Johnny’s whereabouts. It’s right that we support the Spanish as long as there’s anything to be gained, and I’ll wager we’ll not be surprised by anything appearing behind us. Further to that, at Alaejos, the town we passed through after Rueda, we received a captured French dispatch, telling us exactly where the Gentlemen are!”
He moved his finger over the map.
“I believe Moore’s got it about right. If we combine with La Romana, then we can go after Soult, who’s monkeying about somewhere about here, between us and Burgos.”
At that he made himself look cheerful, very deliberately.
“And Baird’s coming in tomorrow, with 9,000 men. That brings us up to 33,000, enough, I think, to give a more than adequate account of ourselves. And our Brigade will be in his Division, the First Division. At last we are number one!”
He looked around, changing the expression on each face to match that of his own.
“Right! What’s for dinner?”
It was D’Villiers who answered, companionably, which discomfited Carravoy even more.
“Chicken, Sir.”
“Chicken!”
“Yes Sir, and some rather discreditable white, and a pile of red beans, name unknown.”
All laughed as they took their places around the uneven “table”, comprising a collection of furniture, which included an uneven sideboard.
Meanwhile, until relieved at dawn, the British pickets shivered in the dark. A picket of the 105th Lights, that included Ellis, Byford, Saunders and Bailey huddled around a tiny, illegal fire, built inside a barn, with each, as a pair, taking it in turns to return to the front door to stare out into the inky darkness. The rain had turned to snow and the ground had frozen, which had made marching to their present position easier than over mud, but the cold now chilled their bones. Moore had given orders that no picket was to light a fire, but the barn was undamaged and the back windows, facing back to the army, were soon blacked out with sacking found in a half loft. It was Ellis and Saunders who at last saw in the dawn which coincided with the return back to them of an advanced picket of the 95th Rifles. With the first arrival of significant daylight the fire could be built up and soon it was, to quickly give a cheerful blaze, enough to brew tea. The Rifles broke their journey to gather its warmth, opening their greatcoats to expose their frozen legs and chilled bodies.
As the Riflemen stood stamping and sharing their tea, Ellis began the questions.
“Where you back from?”
“Some Abbey, a mile on, called “Melgar Abatho”.
Saunders perked up.
“Any brandy? Holy wine?”
The Rifleman laughed.
“Think we didn’t look? If there were, we didn’t find none.”
He took a drink of the scalding tea.
“The place were cleaned out. Statues, Altar cloth, everythin’, but the place weren’t wrecked, like. We reckoned that the Monks worked out what was comin’, loaded it all up an’ shot off! Up to the next estate of theirs filled with Holy Joes. They’m always willin’ to see each other right, when times is a bit fretful.”
Ellis had no interest in the possibility of plundered spirit. He wanted more of what they seen.
“What of the Johnnies?”
“Saw plenty of fires, and there’s horses. Plenty of ‘em, you could smell ‘em on the wind. Johnny’s got cavalry up before us.”
“And infantry?”<
br />
“I’d say not. Too few enough campfires.”
At that point a Rifles Officer strode into the barn, very much looking the part, even though bundled up in a dark green greatcoat, his distinctive sword curving back behind him. All came immediately to the attention. His first words concerned the fire, which he pointed to.
“How long’s that been lit?”
It was Ellis who answered, carefully choosing words from within his long campaign experience.
“Not long been built up, Sir. After dawn, Sir.”
The Officer, plainly not of too many years in uniform, missed the subtlety of the reply and motioned to the three Riflemen.
“Right. That’s Soult up ahead, so, you three get back to the battalion. Things are happening.”
The Rifles Officer was correct, but what he said did not apply to the 105th, nor any other infantry. Not an hour before the departure of the Riflemen from the barn, with the slow dawn just complete, there came past two Regiments of Hussars, moving at a fast trot, led by their Colonels and their Commander himself, Lord Paget. Within the hour came the sounds of battle, a heavy conflict, but not of long duration. Two Brigades of Baird’s First Division, came hurrying forward along the road, the first being Warde’s two battalions of Foot Guards, arriving merely minutes ahead of the messenger to Ellis’ picket from Carr, that they should return. Then came the 105th as part of Bentinck’s Brigade and the picket added themselves to the column. Soon they were all past the Abbey of Melgar Abaxo and within sight of the town of Sahagun, plainly the site of the recent conflict. It had been a cavalry action, short but fierce and the result was that the French had been thrust back beyond the town. The battlefield had already been cleared; the dead laid out in rows, already stripped, the soles of their bare feet displayed towards the passing column. Many veterans amongst Warde’s Guards were as concerned as Deakin regarding what the future may hold and cavalry boots were the best-made boots in any army. Nevertheless, Miles saw no harm in taking the chance to leave the ranks and secure three thick horse blankets from the pile, Ellis turning a blind eye; he had one himself. Deakin and Halfway did the same, as the Colour Company came up and passed by the diminishing pile. Deakin passed comment to Halfway.
“Seems our cavalry ‘ave come up to the mark! Seen off three, four times, their number.”
Halfway nodded.
“Rather them than me! Fightin’ on horses is too far to fall!”
Both smiled and slung their rolled blanket over their shoulders.
The 105th settled into Sahagun with the same speed and expertise as they had at Salamanca, moving into warm billets, with the 105th all indoors; everyman, for all had now taken their turn on picket. Supplies were arriving and their stew was soon hot, albeit the recipe being of a most varied culinary combination, including horsemeat from the Sahagun battlefield. For warmth against the freezing night, both the men and their followers were crammed into the various buildings allocated, to the extent that there was little floor space for anyone to walk across. However, they made the best of it, and there was little argument, even, surprisingly, when Tom Miles and Nelly Nicholls found themselves in the same room. A truce had been struck, caused mainly by the need for all to consume the hot food, then to sleep. Between these two events, both soldiers and followers sat on the rush floor attending to their possessions, either equipment or weapons, or both. Joe Pike sat with his arms around Mary, Jed Deakin sat with Bridie and her children, whilst around them was the usual collection of soldiery, all members of the messes of Pike and Deakin. The latter was, as usual, fretting and worrying about Bridie and the children, to the extent that he inspected each, their clothing, boots and packs. Sinead, the youngest, then Kevin and Patrick all passed muster and required little improvement that called on the experience of “Uncle Jed”, but Eirin, now in her late teens had prejudiced her clothing more towards its appearance than its durability. Her coat of a mid-green, of which she was so pleased when she first acquired it, was now showing its age and original lack of quality; it was now wearing thin and was much patched up, with mending of the mendings. Deakin shook his head.
“This won’t serve! Not no more.”
He turned to his chief scrounger.
“Tom. Get over to the supply wagons. See what’s there. See if you can get a coat of some sort for Eirin yer.”
Miles looked up from the ministering of his own greatcoat, to looks daggers at Deakin, then at Eirin, but he laid aside his sewing and picked his way out of the room, but fifteen minutes later he returned empty handed.
“There’s nothin’ there, Jed. Least not nothin’ that they’ll give up, they bloody griptight bastards as is watchin’ over it all. “Not yet” they says. For now. Any for the ranks is forbid.”
The two shared a blank look, but then Miles went over to his own bundle of possessions to release from the bindings one of the horse blankets, French and light blue with dark blue and gold edgings and the distinctive “8’eme N” embroidered in two corners. He took it to Eirin.
“Here, perhaps you can make summat out of this?”
He held it out to Eirin, but it was Bridie who took it, quickly examining it for possibilities. Eirin looked up insolently at the slightly embarrassed Tom Miles, holding her head to one side, a cheeky smile across her face. She came straight to the point.
“You gone sweet on me, Tom Miles?”
Embarassment and bewilderment quickly overtook Tom Miles, but not for long, and so, sending back looks of confusion and ill temper, he quickly returned to his own place and his own affairs.
The following day, 22nd December, some Spanish returned to the town to trade and sell. Miles’ discomfiture continued when he found himself losing a bidding war between himself and a Hussar for a small flask of brandy. The Hussar had extra booty looted from the recent battle and Miles was outbid, by a silver button. Thoroughly out of sorts he returned to his billet to be greeted by Ellis shouting for all soldiers to parade outside, full kit, ready for inspection. Outside, his was pored over by both NCO’s and Officers, then all were ordered to fall out and obtain double campaign rations, including rum in his water flask, which did something to repair his mood. All through the day, the men sat idle, back in their billets, expecting the order to “form up” to come at any time, but it did not. Instead the call to collect mess rations came and so their martial state gave way to one closer to domesticity. This gave Bridie and Nelly Nicholls more time to work on Eirin’s new “coat” and the blanket was eventually turned into something useful, Nelly scowling at Tom Miles all the while, but him ignoring all, sat there in a state of readiness, greatcoat off but draped around him, pack and rifle close by, busy eating his stew and chewy Spanish bread. The next day, the 23rd, the order came to rest all they could. They would be marching through the following night, to surprise Soult’s men by coming out of the dawn.
Well rested from the previous night, the men slept little, but lounged in their buildings, gambling, singing, talking, and arguing. Not so for their Officers, whom Lacey had called to his Headquarters, and he wasted no time.
“Moore is pushing on to link up with La Romana. The whole army is to advance, and the First Division will be in the lead, including us, with Warde’s Guards at the very point. We and they are to take the bridge at Carrion, nine miles ahead. We march at dusk.”
He looked at Carr.
“Your Company ahead, Henry, we may need you out, quickly.”
He turned to Carravoy.
“Yours next, Charles, ready for an assault.”
He turned himself to the map on the table, his curt briefing now ended.
“Make your preparations. Dismiss.”
They filed out of the narrow door, not sure to be either pleased at the prospect of action, or apprehensive at advancing yet further. Whilst the thoughts of the majority vacillated between the two and in the mind of Charles Carravoy the latter was uppermost. Back in the small room he shared with D’Villiers and Ameshurst, he threw his gloves angrily on the tabl
e.
“This is absurd! He’s relying on La Romana’s rabble to actually turn up and count for something! And the rest of the Spanish Army down South, if there is any “rest” worthy of the term, to hold at least part of Napoleon’s vast forces down near Madrid!”
D’Villiers and Ameshurst looked knowingly at each other, not because of witnessing another of Carravoy’s frequent rages, more because they knew that what he was saying was very close to the truth. They sat quiet, attending to their own affairs of cleaning and checking.
The afternoon dragged on, with even Ellis running out of reasons to inspect and question. Then, finally, as the grey December light died through the windows of their billets, they filed outside to form fours on the road. The followers came also, to stand, cold and anxious to say their last words to their men again about to march off to war. Mary stood close to the column, holding Joe’s hand, Deakin and Halfway teased Eirin about her coat with no sleeves, and Nelly Nicholls told her Henry to make sure that his stupid head remained on his shoulders.
Come full dark they marched off, soon beyond the town and out onto the dirt road, crunching over the frozen soil and ice. It was utterly dark, so that men found the need to place a frozen hand on the pack of the man in front. There was no sound, bar their crunching footfalls, hour after cellar dark hour, on the frosty earth, the rime providing the only guide to their onward march. Suddenly a horseman galloped past, his rank or regiment impossible to see. Then came the order.
“Halt.”
The men did so, their frosty breath now lingering within their ranks. Next came astonishment at the order that came from their own Officers.
“About face!”
Utterly bemused, they turned to face the way that they had come.
“Forward. March on.”
No-one could say why, but Gibney was able to say what.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 24
