“All animals that cannot be taken aboard the ships is to be destroyed, and those that we are taking are only horses. So, this one’s for the chop!”
He was immediately surrounded by howling children, but, more potently, also outraged women, which included the most formidable that he had ever encountered, these being Nelly Nicholls and Bridie Deakin. Both were fighting him for the bridle, whilst the mule himself, seemingly well aware of the fate described for him, was pulling back, but nothing matched the vehemence of Nelly Nicholls.
“Ye’ll not take that mule, ye’ll not, ye gobshite! He’s took us through snow and ice for the past week nor more and that means he doesn’t get kilt just because we’ve reached journey’s end. You’ll not take him, if it means we has pull out our own guns to keep youse murderin’ Devil hands off, an’ we all gets flogged for it! He stays with us. He’s needed to take us to our camp, which’ll be behind our men, that’s the one hundred and fifth.”
Surrounded, and so verbally assaulted, the Provost paused in his attempts to pull the mule away, then Eirin spoke up, being quite prepared to lie and also give a try to the effect of her very pretty face.
“He’s not army! We found him wanderin’, so we used him and he’s given good service, so he has.”
She fixed his eyes with hers, being large Viking blue.
“So, there y’are! He’s not British, he’s Spanish, and when we’ve finished with him, we’ll let him go, or give him to some local farmer. To do him in would be a surely sinful cruelty.”
The Provost gave in. Plainly these followers still had some use for the animal, which was his excuse, but perhaps a long study of Eirin relaxed his grip on the bridle and allowed Mary to pull the animal’s head away.
“All right, if you’ve still a need, but keep him out of sight. Out of sight! Those are the orders, to destroy any horse not fit for the passage home.”
Eirin had more to say and the Provost had no objection to studying her some more as he listened.
“Well, he is fit and he’s not a horse. On top, he’s ours, we found him. But, sure, we’re grateful for your indulgence, ‘tis a kind man that y’are.”
With that she rose up and kissed him, which left him standing in shock as the mule was finally pulled away and his new state also spared him the force of an evil look from Nelly Nicholls. Finally, now recovered, the Provost had another thought.
“Missus!”
Nelly turned, fully ready for another confrontation, but it was to see a much more affable look from the Provost.
“You’d best not stay inside the city if you want to keep your mule. “Sides, there’s to be a battle, the ships aren’t here yet. You’d do best to take yourselves over to that ridge there and get behind a place called Elvina. Your men will end up there, or close.”
Nelly was calmed somewhat.
“Well, now, we thank you for that, your Honour. That’s a kind thought.”
However, Eirin was enjoying the moment.
“And if you pass by our mess fire, you’re welcome for a cup of tea!”
Nelly was immediately appalled at such forward conduct and moved quickly in Eirin’s direction, hand raised to cuff the back of her head.
“Get away, ye shameless hussy! Have ye no sense of what’s proper at all? Just wait till your Uncle Jed hears!”
But Eirin had sprung sideways, to also duck away from the additional threat of her Mother, leaving the Provost chuckling as he moved away himself.
***
“What on earth was that?”
The colossal explosion had easily reached the ears of Lieutenant Royston D’Villiers marching besides his Company Captain, Lord Charles Carravoy, who looked disdainfully to the horizon and the pall of smoke, before bothering to find the breath to reply. He felt he knew only too well.
“Moore, I expect. Blowing up what may be useful, if we’re to fight, as rumour would have it.”
D’Villiers looked apprehensive.
“Fight a battle! But what shape are we in? Losses have been huge since Astorga, and the men look like half starved scarecrows, in fact that’s exactly what they are. Does he really intend to fight a battle with such? Too huge a risk, surely?”
Carravoy now turned his disdainful look in the direction of his subordinate.
“Well, as usual, our noble Commander is at the mercy of events, rather than directing them. There are no ships, and that’s more than rumour, that’s fact. I bumped into Lucius Tavender yesterday. Remember him from Taunton? Well, he’s now attached to the 18th and has a clear understanding that our embarkation will be mightily delayed. There are as yet, assuming there ever will be, no ships. So; a battle is inevitable.”
D’Villiers looked shocked and studied the ground passing beneath his feet. He had no reply, but his Captain had further thoughts.
“Or!”
He paused.
“Or, he negotiates with the French. He strikes a deal which allows us to leave.”
D’Villiers suddenly had a thought of his own.
“You mean a Cintra for us!”
Carravoy gave vent to a contemptuous release of breath.
“Cintra! You think the French would be foolish enough to give us what we gave them?”
He waved his hands for emphasis.
“We’ll be stripped of our arms, swords, cannon and the rest of it, then allowed to troop home with our tails between our legs.”
D’Villiers straightened up.
“Right, then we fight! We’ve never been beaten and we’ve given a very good account of ourselves throughout the retreat. We’ll smack M’sieu on the chin to stand him off, then embark for home, ourselves and our arms intact.”
Carravoy’s reply dripped with sarcasm.
“You got that from Moore, did you?”
D’Villiers stood his ground.
“We deal or we fight! It’s one or the other and I don’t mind trying conclusions with this lot what’ve been on our tail for the past two weeks. From what I’ve seen our men are as good as theirs and better. The men want to fight! Now that must count for something. The men are all back in the column now, no stragglers anywhere, or at least none that I’ve seen. That must count for something as well.”
Carravoy scowled.
“Let’s see! Let’s see what we look like when we actually come to form up, on a ridge or wherever he chooses. Then we’ll make a judgment, when we get to take a look at Johnny, opposite, and then what remains of us!”
D’Villiers was still in the argument.
“That could be a bit late. You talk as though you think we’re bound to lose!”
“Well, what faith can one have? Today is Friday the 13th! Unlucky for which of us is yet in the hands of fate, but my money’s on us being prisoners before the end of next week!”
D’Villiers actually smiled.
“I’ll take you up on that. 100 guineas?”
He grinned to himself, self satisfied at the stand he had made in the face of the strongly opinionated Carravoy and there was no reply.
“So, how’s your French?”
“Good enough to negotiate an exchange, and I’d advise you to brush up on the necessary phraseology yourself!”
They marched on in silence, both following Lacey and O’Hare, who were walking ahead on foot. It was well into the afternoon when both Senior Officers were stopped by an Aide de Camp, who engaged them in a short conversation, before pointing upwards to a hill and handing them a sealed letter. Marching up to stand just behind; Carravoy, D’Villiers and Ameshurst overheard all, mostly from Lacey, after he had broken the seal.
“We are leaving the Reserve Division, and are now back with Bentinck’s Brigade. Still with the …..”
He raised the letter.
“4th and 42nd.”
O’Hare asked the question which was on all their minds.
“And what sort of shape are they in?”
Lacey nodded. The question was one he posed himself.
“Well, we’ll soon find
out when we get to this place …”
He again studied the letter.
“Elvina.”
He looked at O’Hare.
“Up there, did he say?”
“He did, Sir.”
“Very well. Onward and upward and call up the Colour Company. If there’s to be a battle, I do think that being led to our position by our Colours would be the appropriate thing, especially as we are marching up to join such as the 4th and the 42nd. Don’t you agree?”
O’Hare grinned hugely.
“I do, Sir. I agree very much.”
Both looked at each other and grinned, as O’Hare continued.
“Yes, I think a bit of swank and show as we march up, won’t come amiss. We are, after all, the fighting One-Oh-Five! It’s right, is it not, that they should be reassured by the sight of us, more, I am of the opinion, than we are by the sight of them?”
Lacey caught the uplifting mood, adopting a theatrical, heroic pose.
“If The Guards can do it, so can we!”
He looked back at his three Grenadier Officers.
“You would agree?”
Wide grins came back from both D’Villiers and Ameshurst and a loud “Yes Sir!” but from Carravoy, a quizzical stare. However, Lacey was about the business described.
“Sar’ Major!”
Gibney came running up, to come to the attention and salute.
“Sir.”
“We’re forming the men up. Lord Mayor’s Parade! We’re rejoining General Bentinck and we will rejoin with some style. Let them all know who’s come back to the Brigade. No bunch of Detachments any longer, as if we ever were. See that things are up to the mark!”
Gibney fizzed a salute and hurried off, to immediately find fault with all and sundry in the leading Company, the Grenadiers. O’Hare marched down the other side, having the same effect, but with different methods, simply saying that they would soon be marching before their General and two other ‘Royal’ regiments. They must not let the Colonel down. Soon there was a drummer placed between every Company and all was now ready.
“Colours to the fore!”
Under Gibney’s command and supervision, Number Three Company swung out of the column and, when they were at the head, all followed on, with Gibney screaming about arms and feet above the sound of each step. O’Hare stood back a little and watched his men march past. They did look appalling, with their uniforms more likely to fall off than to stay on, but there was nothing wrong with the swing of their arms nor the beat of their step. Nor the cleanliness of their weapons, he noticed! Satisfied, he allowed all to pass, including Carr’s Light Company at the rear, then he joined on, immediately picking up the step and the rhythm of the march.
On the heights, they were greeted by the same Aide de Camp, who again pointed out Elvina, now very evident by its prominent church with a high front containing twin bells. However, he directed them over to the right, where they would drop down slightly onto the opposite side of the ridge to overlook Corunna. There they would immediately see Bentinck’s other two regiments, so he said. As the Aide turned away, Lacey spoke his thanks, then he led his men on and, as they crossed over the ridge and the ground fell before them, then they saw for themselves the high walls and battlements of Corunna, these defending the whole isthmus on which the town was built. What he did notice, which depressed his thoughts somewhat, was the empty harbour, empty save for the fishing vessels of the last few brave, or desperate, souls who owned and worked them.
The rear of the ridge was almost fully covered by the camping grounds of the majority of Moore’s Regiments and, for a moment, Lacey felt that he was bound to lose his way. Then he saw a figure he recognised from two weeks back, two weeks that had seemed an age; Bentinck was sat on his horse, accompanied by two Aides, waiting for them, which was very decent and noble of him, so Lacey thought. Bentinck was positioned between two encampments, which Lacey reasoned to be those of the 4th and 42nd, so he led his men on, through the gap, to the first available space. Leaving O’Hare to lead them there, he left the head of the column and took himself over to his Brigadier, then he came to the attention and saluted. For the first time since they had known him, Bentinck was without his irked “Headmaster” expression and actually looked pleased with what he saw.
“Evening Lacey!”
“Sir.”
“Your men look in good spirits. You must have had a good retreat!”
Both men laughed, as Lacey answered.
“Well, I’ve known better, Sir, and that was in the Americas, where the weather was, on the whole, kinder.”
Bentinck nodded.
“That I don’t doubt.”
He eased forward in his saddle.
“I’m pleased to have you back, and Paget is sorry to lose you!”
“That’s very kind of him. We did our best.”
“Just so! His trust in you was total. His exact words, Lacey.”
“Again, Sir, that’s very kind of him.”
Bentinck grinned some more.
“Now, I’ve a welcome back gift. Bentson here will show you.”
Bentson saluted, as did Lacey, for the conversation was evidently at an end, and the Aide led Lacey to what could only be described as an arms dump, for there were hundreds of brand new muskets, stacked in piles of ten, with new bayonet scabbards and bayonets hanging from their muzzles. Behind these were stacks of wooden crates, the very familiar cartridge crates, also with piles of soldier’s cartridge boxes with their straps draped beside them. Upon the cartridge crates were smaller boxes that Lacey recognised as flints. Bentson pointed and grinned.
“You are to help yourself, Sir. Corunna is stuffed full of such, and anything that cannot be used is to be destroyed.”
He paused, whilst Lacey feasted his eyes of the display of brand new equipment.
“Welcome back, Sir!”
Lacey returned the salute.
“Thank you. These are most welcome.”
Lacey knew that his men had taken scrupulous care of their weapons, but, nevertheless, they were worn and rusty and showed the effects of the retreat. He looked for the nearest soldier of the 105th, who were all, by now, busy making their camp. The soldier was evidently on a mission to obtain water.
“Fetch Sergeant Major Gibney.”
The soldier dropped his bucket and ran off. Soon Gibney appeared and brought himself to the attention.
“Sir!”
“Sar’ Major. I want every man with a new musket, before lights out. When you get to Captain Carr tell him that his men have the choice, to keep their Baker or get a new musket. I want this done quickly, the French are not that far behind.”
Gibney rounded an elaborate salute and left. By the time the sun was touching the horizon, every man had a new cartridge box and every man who wanted one had a new musket and bayonet, but these included none of the Light Company where Miles pronounced judgement.
“Bugger that! When I sights on some Frencher as is opposite, I needs to know that I’ll put’n down, so’s ’ee don’t get off a shot back, when I be doin’ a reload.”
***
Chaplain’s Assistant Percival Sedgwicke was awake long before dawn, partly because on hard ground he was a habitually poor sleeper, unless utterly exhausted, but mostly on this occasion because of the loud snoring coming from the tent of Chaplain Prudoe and his good wife, the sound emanating wholly from the former, Sedgwicke concluded. Immediately they had made camp, the Reverend had strode on into Corunna, rescued a horse from assassination, loaded upon her back a tent that he had requisitioned from a military warehouse and brought it back for Sedgwicke and four other soldiers to erect on his behalf. However, yet another sound roused Sedgwicke from his bed, the sound of explosions as unclaimed stores were destroyed before the battle, which all in the army now assumed was inevitable.
It was early, too early, to consider making breakfast for his Superior, which he usually took alone, for his wife habitually now took hers with Bridie Deakin and N
elly Nicholls. Therefore, somewhat at a loss, Sedgwicke dressed himself, grimacing as he again dragged on the clothing stiff with sweat and mud and God knew what else, then he sparked up his tinderbox and made a fire. Some tea for himself was reviving and, with that inside him, he considered what to do next and his thoughts soon alighted on the idea of joining the campfire of Nelly and Bridie. An extra loud snore from the tent confirmed that Prudoe yet remained in deep sleep and so he took himself the few yards up the slope to find Nelly and Bridie already awake and bustling around after their children. It was Nelly who noticed him first and bade him welcome.
“Ah Parson, a fine good morning to youse. You’ll take some tea?”
Sedgwicke nodded. ‘Tea’ with Bridie and Nelly always included a dough cake, of a quality that he could never match and so he sat on a horse blanket and eagerly accepted both. As he ate and drank it was Bridie who spoke the subject of the previous night’s conversation between herself and her friend.
“Parson, darlin’, do you think our men have come up yet?”
Sedgwicke was, after all, the graduate of an ecumenical college and therefore not bereft of good sense nor short on logical thought, therefore his impression, gained from what he had seen and from the sheer passage of time, drew him to the positive conclusion.
“Yes, Mrs. Deakin. I’d say that by now they were.”
Bride Deakin screwed up her mouth in a sort of “I don’t like to ask this, but......”
“Well, Parson, you don’t think, what with you wearin’ the uniform and all, and can go places we can’t, you could take a go at findin’ of their whereabouts?”
She paused.
“Do you think?”
Nelly had listened to all and was nodding vigorously.
“Yes Parson. There’s goin’ to be fightin’ soon, even today, God forbid, and so we’d surely like to see our men, before it all starts off, and, well, there’s a whole army spread over these hills and the Lord knows where ours could be.”
Sedgwicke put down his cup and sighed.
“I could and I will, dear ladies. But I may be some time and, therefore, the Reverend will need his breakfast and I may not be here to provide it. So, if you could take care of that, I will try to find our Regiment. It is my duty to be with them during a battle in any case; therefore it is my duty to find them. Please to tell the Reverend that, when he awakes.”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 41
