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

by Martin McDowell

  He walked up to Nelly and Bridie.

  “That’s what’s wound the lads up into such a state. An’ they’ve got a point, as I sees it!”

  He motioned them forward and used the bayonet on his musket to roll two smoking barrels off the fire. With the butt of his musket he smashed both open to reveal smoking joints of meat, seemingly pork, amongst the packed salt.

  “There you go, girls. Pick out of those what you can.”

  The two started forward to use their own knives to spike the joints and thrust them into their knapsacks, but the Sergeant hadn’t finished, he turned to one of his men.

  “Smith. Fetch out a sack of biscuit. And flour, if there’s some.”

  In the time that it took Nelly and Bridie to fill their knapsacks of the joints of meat, Smith returned, with but one sack.

  “No flour, Sarge, ‘tis all scattered, but here’s biscuit.”

  He handed it to the Sergeant who handed it to Bridie.

  “Compliments of the Provosts, girls.”

  He stood pointing, back out of town.

  “Now get along, or you’ll get me shot, just like that silly sod over there.”

  He used his thumb to point to the executed soldier, but neither of the women was listening, it was Bridie who was speaking.

  “May the Saints bless and preserve you, Sir. Do you have a name?”

  “Jacob Lederman is who I am. If you’re ever in the Isle of Dogs, ask for the Lederman’s. Anyone’ll tell you the way, and our door’ll be open to you.”

  It was Nelly’s turn.

  “And if you’re ever in Roscommon, ask for the O’Mara’s and say you’ve seen Nelly, as became a Nicholls. You’re a Saint, so y’are, and a good man. I’ll get my Henry to shake your hand, if ever we gets the chance!”

  With a wave from all three Provosts, the two followers departed, keeping to the shadows, ever wary, cudgels at the ready, but they were not disturbed and soon reached the shelter of their room to unpack the precious contents of their haversacks.

  ***

  The 105th marched in during the late evening of the next day, the 3rd January, but for them there was to be no overnight rest. Paget’s orders, received on the march, were to cook a meal, then march on, through the night. To “cook a meal” were the operative words. All in the Reserve Division had become aware of the task allocated to the Lights and Grenadiers of the 91st, and so it was in high anticipation that they watched Ameshurst’s section of Grenadiers march further into the town to secure the promised rations, for which they were now in great need. Carravoy considered the idea of accompanying his men himself, an idea toyed with but briefly, because Binns had secured a good billet, both warm and dry. Therefore, from his own initiative, he sent Cyrus Gibney in with Ameshurst as weighty support, “after all, who would be better at dealing with devious soldiery?”

  What they saw at the practically lifeless warehouses put disgust on the face of Gibney and dismay upon that of Ameshurst, for all was now lifeless, bar the now common inebriates, prone or reeling and seen in all directions. The buildings were empty of what had been promised, except for a covering of smashed and trodden biscuit across the floor and what had been flour, but was now brown and damp, mixed with the bare earth. At the entrance to one warehouse stood the forlorn figures of the Captains of the 91st Lights and Grenadiers. Both felt it their solemn if wholly unpleasant duty to “face the music” and tell those of their Division what had happened. Approaching the pair, alongside Ameshurst and Gibney, came other Officers of the four other Regiments of the Reserve Division, two Captains of the 52nd in the lead. The dejection on the face of the two Captains of the 91st told all and but one sentence was sufficient, from the older of the two Captains.

  “Our men joined in the looting!”

  It was Gibney who reacted quickest.

  “I’ll take some lads, Sir, an’ make a search. Should find summat!”

  Ameshurst looked at him, utterly dejected, but grateful for a positive reaction.

  “Yes, Sar’ Major.”

  He nodded morosely.

  “I’ll take a look around myself.”

  The “look around” of both revealed nothing of any significant value, except dried or charcoaled meat at the bottom of various fires, these caused to be examined when Gibney recognised the remains of pork barrels. He set all the men he had to guard the remains, this appearing more as piles of ash than the source of any provender. Thus it was with but scrapings that they returned to their Regiment, carrying mummified meat and some meagre bags of biscuit, this gleaned from the floors of the warehouses.

  Meanwhile, emotions were equally in deep jeopardy in the room occupied by Bridie, Nelly and Mary. George Fearnley had given himself the unenviable task of informing Mary that Joe was missing. As he entered their billet, the unique event of him arriving alone told Mary that something was wrong. Lying on a blanket on the floor, she lifted herself onto one elbow, fear and anxiety layered over her tired face.

  “Where’s Joe?”

  Fearnley gave no answer, but walked forward to be nearer and offer some words of comfort, but not hearing the answer she wanted sent her into paroxysms of weeping. Both women rushed to her and Fearnley spoke softly the words he wanted to say. Deakin and Henry Nicholls stood helpless in the background.

  “Now, it’s not as bad as it seems, Mary, they’re missing. No-one saw……”

  He paused, not wanting to use the word “bodies”, but it was too much of a struggle.

  “…… well, their bodies.”

  He found better words.

  “We didn’t see them dead!”

  Bridie looked at him.

  “Them?”

  Fearnley nodded, now encouraged.

  “Yes. He’s missing with John Davey, Tom Miles, Sarn’t Ellis, Zeke Saunders and John Byford. If they were dead, we’d have seen them, across the river, where it happened. They could be prisoners, then alive, or they’re out somewhere, trying to get back.”

  Nelly nodded at him, then rubbed Mary’s shoulder.

  “There now, Mary, there’s hope if ever I heard it. He’s in the company of five good lads, if ever I was a judge, including that scut Tom Miles. Now there’s a survivor if ever I saw one, and you know what they say about bad pennies and he’s one of the worst!”

  But Mary was inconsolable and buried her face in the pile of clothing that served as a pillow. Nelly continued to rub her back, to afford some consolation, whilst the children all looked on, almost as desolate as Mary herself. Deakin looked at Henry Nicholls.

  “We’d best get out an’ see what rations’ve come back.”

  Nicholls nodded and both left, with George Fearnley, leaving the women to do the best they could with Mary, speaking words of hope that they had no evidence for. It wasn’t long before both men returned, both as desolate as the atmosphere in the room and both empty-handed. Bridie looked at Deakin stood wretched, him shaking his head.

  “There’s no rations, Bridie! ‘T’as all been ruined by the army, as’ve come ’ere before.”

  Bridie’s face changed, it became cheerful, which puzzled Deakin greatly.

  “’Tis all right, Jed, at least for now.”

  She crossed the room to their haversacks and opened one.

  “Before you came in, we pulled some salt pork and beef from the fires. Some Provosts let us, so we’ve meat, at least, and a little biscuit.”

  Deakin crossed to the four bundles and opened each.

  “Provosts you say! The first I’ve heard of them cold hearted beggars showin’ any measure of Christian charity!”

  Bridie sprang to their defence.

  “Well they did, and they fetched out that sack of biscuit.”

  She pointed to the 10lbs sack propped against the wall, then it rapidly dawned on Deakin that his followers were better provided for, than any soldier’s mess in the whole Regiment. He didn’t need to think too long.

  “Right. Count these out.”

  The haversacks were emptied
and the pieces counted, to total 43. Deakin gave his verdict.

  “These has to be spread over.”

  He pushed four apart.

  “These you keep. Get the rest around the followers and they’ll give what they can to their men. He looked at Bridie.

  “Have you still got them acorns?”

  Bridie nodded.

  “Let’s ’ave a look.”

  She went over to the bundle unloaded from the travois.

  As was in that sad place, so also in others. In the hours left to them before marching off into the night, many were about their own melancholy business. Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke was around the campfires of the men and followers, with a pot of the pork grease that he had found at the base of many fires in the town, rubbing it onto any frostbite or open wound. Henry Carr was dining on horsemeat and biscuit, washing it down with sour wine, which did nothing to wash away his sorrow and anger at the loss of his men. He blamed himself for doing nothing when he saw the danger. Neither Drake nor Shakeshaft could console him, after all, neither could speak from the weight of experience, but the arrival of Padraigh O’Hare did help.

  “These things happen, Henry, it’s the game we’re in. We have to set ourselves to live with it, or give it up. That’s the trade we’ve chosen. It’s all a part.”

  He poured some brandy into four receptacles and picked one up for himself, as then did the other three, and all drank. There was no toast.

  ***

  The cliff provided little shelter from the wet discomfort that fell incessantly from the limitless black of the sky above, sending snow, then sometimes rain, but mostly a mixture of the two. Davey and Miles had managed a fire that had spit, failed, then found new life as the wood dried. It was now a good blaze as they dried their boots, still wearing them, after the soaking in the Cua. The three Riflemen, found to be called Alfred Verrity, Jeruel Spivey and Harry Newcombe sat alongside the six of the 105th, to feel it’s cheering warmth, all sat close up within its yellow light. Beside him, Ellis had four haversacks spread on the ground, their edges close together to protect the food spread upon them from the mud beneath. It was a meagre gathering from the haversacks of them all, of raw meat, root vegetables, biscuit, stale bread, dried fruit and acorns. All disconsolately studied the artist’s subject for a “still life”. None more so than Ellis, for there was barely enough for one day’s march, let alone the prospect of several days, before they could hope to circle back to their army, whilst still keeping ahead of the French. He sighed and began the process of sharing it out and it took but a little time for each portion to be stored in the haversacks of the nine. Ellis was securing the straps on his, when a musket barrel appeared over his left shoulder, accompanied by several others that came into the circle to complete the ring, signalling immediately that they were surrounded. The muskets were Charleroi pattern, French, but the men who held them pointed threateningly at the chests of the nine were anything but, for, at that moment came an imposing figure into the firelight to stand between Tom Miles and Jeruel Spivey. He was tall, but what they saw first were stout French cavalryman boots, then heavy pantaloons, much buttoned on the outside. They disappeared up into a round ball of sheepskin, but the impression was not one of corpulence, rather of rugged strength. The ringlets and a luxurious moustache beneath a peaked hunter’s cap completed the image. He spoke two words; neither were questions.

  “Inglés. Venga!”

  The movements of the musket barrels gave all the translation that was needed and the nine stood up and gathered their possessions, hastily donning their equipment. As they moved off, one of their captors added fuel to the fire, leaving it as a more than adequate decoy.

  They progressed on, hour after hour, through narrow clefts and thick woodland, always holding to a narrow path, defined poorly by its surrounds, but clearly shown in the slush by the footprints of those marching ahead. The pace the Spaniards set was good Light Infantry, but always upwards, and gradually the idea of them being captives faded. For one thing they were allowed to keep their weapons and for another, whenever a wineskin was produced it was given first to them. Relations improved with Byford giving the correct response, “Gracias, Senor”, eliciting the reply, “De nada.” Miles was feeling more secure by the minute and passed his own cosily familiar verdict on Byford’s linguistic ability, “Book learned bastard!” This feeling grew further within him when one of the Spaniards tapped him on the arm and offered what looked in the dark like a strip of leather, but proved, at the first bite, to be some kind of dried meat. Miles spoke the reply he had learnt from Byford and received the same reply from the Spaniard.

  It was a bleak and fitful dawn that saw them enter what appeared to be an old quarry, which impression showed true with the growing light, containing many deep overhangs that harboured rough huts and shelters. It was well populated, all genders and all ages were up and about with the dawn, all busy with some task, cooking, chopping firewood, examining clothing and bedding, sorting through stores of food. The leader indicated where they could lie down, under an overhang on a spread out pile of bracken. The nine sat, not wishing yet to lie flat, instead wishing to examine the camp. The most obvious conclusion was that a whole village had moved up into the hills, into this disused quarry, to build shelters amongst the rocks and overhangs. They had but little time for detailed examination, because the leader was now standing before them.

  “Coma, entonces duerma.”

  Ellis waited until he had departed.

  “What’s he say, Byfe?”

  Byford stretched his mouth in uncertainty.

  “Well, Spanish is close to Portuguese, so I think he said, “Eat, then sleep.”

  Ellis nodded and soon the first part of Byford’s translation proved correct. Some stew arrived in large earthen bowls. It contained a lot of beans and green leaf, but it was accompanied by flat bread, one for each bowl. The nine took the bowls eagerly, ignoring the heat on their fingers from the hot dishes and soon the food had disappeared. Three women arrived to collect the empties, one a girl in her late teens, who made a beeline for Joe to collect his bowl and spent as long as was on the right side of not too obvious, studying him, until embarrassment did pull her eyes away. This did not go unnoticed by Ellis.

  “You keep any thoughts on that wench out of your head, ‘fore you ends up with the knife of some lovelorn swain in through your ribs or some Father marchin’ you off to some Altar.”

  Joe Pike looked shocked and dejected at the same time.

  “It’s Mary, my Mary, that I’m worried about.”

  Ellis nodded.

  “We all knows that, boy, but she’s in as good a set of hands as I can think of, Nelly Nicholls and Bridie Deakin, with Jed not far, neither. Keep that worry out of your head, we’ve enough of our own.”

  All within hearing nodded their agreement and reassurance, but Ellis was changing the subject.

  “Now, some sleep, but I’ll take the first watch. These coves seems affable enough, but it takes more than a bowl of stew and a pile of bracken to win my trust. Keep your rifles slung right around you so’s they can’t be took off you easily. There’s a few here as wouldn’t say no to such a gun as a Baker, that’s for sure.”

  The rest of the group, bar Ellis, unstrapped their blankets, spread them over themselves and immediately fell into deep sleep. After three hours, a woman brought Ellis a beaker of a bitter infusion to drink, but it was hot and, to him, surprisingly refreshing. He woke Davey who then stood watch, giving Ellis a short period of rest. The others woke soon after but Ellis was allowed to sleep on; then his prediction did come true. Three of the band came to Davey and pointed to his rifle. Davey nodded.

  “Byfe. What’s the words for good gun?”

  Byford sat up and spent a second in thought.

  “Fusil bueno, I think. They used the word fusil on our march here.”

  Davey looked at the three and smiled.

  “Fusil bueno. Baker.”

  One held out his hands,
obviously wanting to take the gun, another placed a collection of knives, jewellery and a French pistol on the ground. Clearly they wanted to trade. Davey shook his head.

  “No, my fusil.”

  He beat the flat of his hand back against his chest.

  “My fusil.”

  Byford helped.

  “Mi fusil.”

  Another piece of cheap jewellery appeared, but Davey still shook his head. The three became angry and spoke in loud, rapid Spanish. Davey looked at Byford.

  “What they say.”

  “I have very little idea, but I did hear the word “hospitalidad”, which I can only surmise means that we should be grateful for their hospitality.”

  Davey looked perplexed, not from what had been said, more from what he needed to say in return.

  “Can you tell them, that if I have no gun, I get shot by our army?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He thought for some seconds, while the three irate Spaniards continued to glare at Davey. Eventually Byford composed something.

  “No fusil, inglés dispara.”

  He placed his own rifle behind him, then sent a stiff index finger into his own chest.

  “Bang! No fusil. Inglés dispara.”

  The three looked only a little less irate, but their faces changed when they heard the voice of their leader.

  “Déjelos sólo. Consiga acerca de su trabajo!”

  The three slunk off as the leader approached, accompanied by what appeared to a scholarly gentleman, clearly no weakling, but with a gentle face. When close enough he addressed Davey and Ellis, in broken but understandable English.

  “I am Antonio Sempri and he is Georgio Mangara. He is leader, of us.”

  At the sound of his name Mangara nodded his head, but Ellis and Davey felt it better to show proper manners and so they rose and shook the hands of both. This seemed to please Mangara, who then spoke to Sempri.

  “Georgio wishes to know why you are leaving Spain.”

  Ellis nodded, and spoke in simple terms.

  “Too many French come. Napoleon leads them.”