“Did you hit him?”
“No, Sir. But we frightened him off, Sir.”
At this point, Drake noticed the wall and was doubly mollified.
“My word, men. Good job! This wouldn’t disgrace a country estate!”
Miles now felt the mood light enough to incorporate a comment from him.
“Yes Sir. Davey here fancies himself as some kind of champion wall constructor, Sir.”
Drake smiled slightly.
“And with some justification.”
He looked over the wall.
“And now you’re making some kind of glacis.”
He looked at the six.
“Well done! Carry on. Well done!”
All six Lights came to the attention and saluted as Drake took himself back up the alley and rejoined a very different and languid group above the village, just in time to hear yet more gunfire, heavier, but more distant. They looked across to their left, this gathering being the six Officers of the two Light Companies, who had been engaged in earnest, if relaxed, conversation, whilst their men, equally earnestly, if in no way as relaxed, did their best to fortify the village. It was Captain Bertram Trevelyan of the 4th Light Company, who spoke the question that all had asked of themselves.
“Is this it, kicking off, do you think?”
All, almost as one, produced their telescopes and trained them over to the sound of the guns and the growing billows of smoke. It was at the far end of the valley to them, on the extreme British left, that the action was taking place, on the slopes above the village of Palavea that they had themselves marched through, but two days before. Through their glasses they could see French battalions descending from their heights, whilst a lone British one ascended up from the very floor of the valley, on the French side. Trevelyan was the first to lower his telescope, then raise it again.
“What on earth’s going on? One lone battalion off on a jaunt. Attacking some guns, perhaps?”
Carr folded his glass and put it away. He wanted to see no more.
“Whatever, whoever’s leading them hasn’t a cat in Hell’s chance. Those are guns we can hear, but not ours, and just look at what’s coming down the hill against him, whoever he is, and to the depths of Hades with whoever ordered him to do it!”
He continued watching, unaided by any telescope, the movements of clear blocks of blue and the line of red telling their own story. Within minutes the red line was not longer an ordered formation, but a broken horde pouring back to their own lines. At this point Carr did re-use his telescope to see many prone red figures on the ground and several being led away as prisoners. He said nothing, but Colour Sergeant Deakin, higher up the hill, did speak an opinion, but at least only to himself and to his companion Tobias Halfway.
“Another damn Officer with more hankerin’ for glory than brains to make it happen. T’ain’t a disease as only afflicts the French, more’s the pity.”
Halfway nodded, then spoke his own agreement.
“That’ll be 50 good lads gone, as should’ve had a better chance of seein’ theirselves out of here.”
Deakin looked away and leant his forehead against the leather casing of his Colour, After several more hours, it was a relief when, come the late afternoon with dusk falling, they received the order to pull back to the mess line that they had advanced from in the morning.
***
Chaplain’s Assistant Percival Sedgwicke was now in a state of high agitation, which had been growing all through the afternoon, but was now becoming unbearable. He was a deeply religious man, believing in Heaven and Hell and in Salvation only through Jesus Christ, with the same certainty that he believed the sun would rise the next day, but he was now practically distraught at the thought that men may soon die without the opportunity to commune with their Maker. His Chaplain, with the evident onset of a battle which may well have begun that very day, should that morning have conducted a Service for all who felt the need to attend and set their Spiritual needs at rest before becoming a part of what was likely to be a very bloody affair. However, relations between the two had become so coldly formal that Sedgwicke felt that it would do more harm than good to make the suggestion.
With the dying of the day, Sedgwicke’s worst fears were surely confirmed, for it was clear that Prudoe had not appeared to conduct any kind of evening ceremony and Sedgwicke was now enough of a soldier to know that the men could be called up to their line way before dawn, when it would then be too late. He sat for a further half hour, distressed and wringing his hands, before he decided that it was his Christian duty, even if not his place nor position, to indeed ask the question or to conduct the affair himself, now justifiably assuming that the possibility of Prudoe performing the duty was very remote. Something had to be offered, in some form, by someone.
Taking a deep breath and summoning all his resolve he strode down the back slope to Prudoe’s tent. As was customary he knocked on the tent pole as a form of obeisance to politeness and expected to hear a reply, either from Chaplain Prudoe, or his wife, but he heard neither. Alarmed, he pulled back the flap to find a weak light burning in a tiny lantern and he immediately noticed the substantial figure of Chaplain Prudoe lying on a crude cot, with his back to the entrance. He re-summoned his resolve.
“Sir!”
There was no answer. He spoke louder.
“Sir!”
The figure rolled towards him, but not enough so that he could see his face.
“Dammit, Sedgwicke, what do you want?”
Stunned by such profane language, albeit spoken slurred and wearily, Sedgwicke had to re-gather himself, but he asked himself the question whether his Chaplain was drunk. He sniffed the air, but detected nothing other than the smell of a large man; rank and unhygienic. Neither glass nor bottle could be seen. Having at least obtained some kind of response, Sedgwicke continued.
“Sir, almost certainly there will be a battle tomorrow and it is customary to hold some form of Service. For the men, Sir. They are all of our Faith and expect it, Sir. The day has almost ended.”
The figure had rolled back to its original position, but it did speak.
“So you want me to?”
The shape shifted on the bed, like a beached whale shrugging to gain further comfort.
“Conduct a service, that is?”
Sedgwicke was again taken aback by the ridiculous question, partly because of “who else” and partly because it carried the notion that he, Sedgwicke, had some power of command. He searched for an answer and found one, at least partly diplomatic.
“I felt the need to come and remind you, Sir.”
The reply could only be described as a sob, more than one, between deep sighs, but eventually scathing words did come and at full volume.
“The men can go to the Devil, Sedgwicke, and so can you!”
Stunned, Sedgwicke took a step back, then stopped. There was to be no Service conducted by Prudoe, which left but one alternative, for it to be conducted by himself. His mind now fully made up, he turned to the chest that contained Prudoe’s vestments and opened it. He considered asking permission to borrow, but in the light of Prudoe’s last utterance it seemed pointless. The full range of vestments for an Anglican Priest were there, but Sedgwicke knew that for one, he was unfrocked, for another he was Low Church, and finally, he was but a ranker, not even an NCO. He first pulled out the Dalmatic, the robe which would have covered him beyond his knees, but wearing that would be a display way beyond his station, so he dropped it behind him. The next was the simple green Cope that would hang around his neck to mid thigh. This he accepted and he stopped there, after hanging it around his neck. It was sparse and simple, yet symbolic enough to show that he was the Preacher accepting the role, albeit a Lay Preacher. It would convey some significance, but of what nature and to what level Sedgwicke could not calculate, but he had other concerns. He rose and left the tent, then went straight to his own belongings for his Bible, then to someone that he knew would be supportive, this bei
ng Colour Sergeant Jedediah Deakin, found in the act of polishing the shaft of the King’s Colour.
“Hello, Old Parson. What brings you over here, and done up in your Regimentals?”
“There needs to be a Service.”
Deakin nodded.
“I was wonderin’ about that myself.”
Sedgwicke’s blunt answers fully conveyed his uncertainty.
“Our Chaplain is indisposed.”
Deakin drew back his head.
“Drunk, that means!”
“No. I think he is in a fit of severe depression.”
Deakin released a sharp breath.
“Depressed! About what?”
What he had left unsaid, was that most in any Regiment thought the Office of Chaplain to be the least onerous in the army, a judgment only redeemed by how assiduously and conscientiously they carried out their Office, but Sedgwicke now answered.
“I don’t know, but I have taken it upon myself to conduct one. I was hoping for your help.”
Deakin regarded him very seriously and not unsympathetically in the dim light, but he paused before answering. He knew that Sedgwicke was going way beyond his rank, but it was a Service from him, or it was nothing.
“Alright, Old Parson. A few drums and The Colours should do it. Where?”
Sedgwicke looked to either side, then behind him.
“Just behind us, here.”
He pointed over his shoulder, using a cultivated index finger, rather than an unrefined thumb. Then Deakin stood up, retaining The Colour in his hand, and shook Halfway awake.
“Toby! Parson here wants to hold a Service for the lads. He needs a few drums stacked up and the other Colour. Where’s Harry?”
Halfway sat up and reached for his shako.
“Just over.”
Halfway did point with his thumb, in the direction behind him. Deakin issued his orders.
“Right. You find a few Drummer Boys and I’ll find Harry.”
The three went their separate ways, Deakin to find Harry Bennet, the Colour Sergeant of the Regimental Colour, Halfway to get some drums and Sedgwicke to go and stand where he wanted the “Altar” to be. Soon figures began to appear out of the growing gloom, Deakin with Harry Bennet, each carrying a Colour, then Halfway with a group of Drummerboys and seen to be cuffing one for some cheeky remark. One of the drummers carried a lantern on a tall spike. When the drums were stacked, three on four, Deakin spoke the next move.
“We’d better spread the word.”
This was spoken to Bennet and Halfway and so, leaving the Colours, still encased, leaning against the drums, the three departed to “spread the word”, leaving Sedgwicke to assemble his materials as he saw fit. For a moment Sedgwicke looked at the brown leather cases containing the precious squares of cloth that were now solely in his charge. He first uncased the Regimental Colour, that of emerald green. The cloth was heavy in his hand, but he knew full well its significance and could easily read the battle-honour “Maida” embroidered upon it. He blessed it, then laid it over the drums, before doing the same with the King’s Colour, the Union flag. Then he studied his Bible in the light of the lantern to make a hurried choice of Psalm and Reading and a Hymn, before turning around, to wait, standing in front of the drums supporting the draped flags.
He was surprised to see men already there, stood ordered and waiting with more joining. Soon there was a wide half-circle stood before him, but he waited for what he judged to be two more minutes. Whether or not more joined he had little idea, for the growing darkness hid all beyond the front ranks. Several Officers had joined and were amazed to see Sedgwicke where they should see Prudoe, but none felt justified to put a stop to what was highly irregular, but very well attended by the men, plainly well regarded and obviously meeting a need within them. Sedgwicke took a deep breath and began. At his first words, shakoes were removed. If the Service were conducted by an Officer it would have been an order, but Sedgwicke had forgotten.
“Dear Lord, we ask you to look kindly upon our congregation here, gathered in Your Name in a place which will soon become a field of strife and conflict. All have arrived here to gain your peace and comfort in the name of your only son, Jesus Christ. We beg that you look kindly upon us as unworthy sinners who seek absolution through the way as taught by our Dear Lord, Jesus Christ. We gather here at the end of your Holy Day, knowing that many here will not see the sun set on the day you give that follows this. We ask that you hear our Prayers, and keep us safe, save that of knowing that we place ourselves in your merciful hands, obedient to thy will, and that if our time has come, then you receive us with forgiveness for sins past. In the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, Amen.”
All spoke the Amen and it came as a deep sound, indicating the numbers attending. He paused, then he began singing his chosen hymn “Light Shining out of Darkness” It was a popular hymn, chosen by Sedgwicke as one that almost all would know and could join in, and, after Sedgwicke’s lone voice had cast the first few words insignificantly into the night, the assembled male voices swelled across the hilltop. With the dying of the last note, he spoke the 23rd Psalm; with his Bible closed, for he knew the words too well, and many joined in, including Carr, Drake, Shakeshaft and Ameshurst, stood to one side. With silence re-established, Sedgwicke opened his Bible for the Reading, but he had not spoken one word before a hand came across him and took the book.
“I’ll read that.”
It was Heaviside and, in the light of the lantern, he instantly recognised the chapters and verses that were appropriate.
“The reading is taken from the Books of Hebrews, 10, verse 39, and 11, verses 1 to 7.”
He gathered himself.
“We are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have Faith and keep their Souls.”
He continued to the end, and all heard the fitting words, spoken deep and heartfelt by this most devout of men. Then he wordlessly handed the Bible back to Sedgwicke, before returning to his place.Sedgwicke had meanwhile, recovered his own self-control and now spoke again to finish the ceremony; speaking loudly and with deep conviction, using words that all knew.
“Our Father……”
All took up the familiar Lord’s Prayer, spoken by all, with a depth of care and feeling such that those who had not attended, but could still hear, rose to their feet, some to join in and some merely to stand, to feel part of the familiar commune that had been a cornerstone of their lives since earliest childhood. Some also to reflect that, on the following day, they would be but specks on a field of battle, their fate determined by pure chance or, so they hoped, the merciful hand of the God that they looked to for hope and salvation through times almost as desperate as this one to come.
***
Chapter Nine
From Noon till Sunset
Joe Pike woke with reveille, the uplifting notes swinging across a hillside still dark, and very winter bare; a wide upland, cold and bleak, cheerless bar his comrades now seen and about their own small affairs. Usually, when in the presence of the enemy, he had found himself being shaken awake in some makeshift hole under a log or beside a hedge, to then take his turn at sentry, but this time his Captain had pleaded the case of the Light Company, namely that they would be holding Elvina all day and should therefore be excused the duty of night sentry, so for this reason they had been pulled back to the messlines. He opened his eyes to see a sky grey and dark, but it was sometime before his mind recovered the thought that today there would almost certainly be a battle and then came the subsequent notion that he may not survive it. He tried to move but could not, Mary was half across him, in the exact same position as she had been in when they had both lain down to sleep.
She sighed softly as he gently detached himself by rolling away, out of the blankets that covered them both, to replace them carefully over Mary and put on his greatcoat against the cold. John Davey had already established a good fire and was mounting their pot over the cheerful flames to heat water for tea. No
ticing the erect figure, Davey looked up and made a careful examination of him, but saw nothing of any concern, neither in his face nor posture.
“Morning Joe!”
Joe Pike nodded and ran his hand over his hair.
“John.”
He looked at the pot of water.
“How long till tea?”
Davey smiled up at him
“Five minutes, perhaps more.”
Joe Pike smiled.
“I’ll have a bit of a wash.”
He took off his upper clothes, feeling the cold, but he splashed water over his face and body, then brushed off what water he could and re-dressed. By now Mary had sat up and was looking carefully at him, much as John Davey had, but perhaps with more anxiety. He returned her look, half smiling, remaining so, until he saw the anxiety fall from her face to be replaced by a look that had become very special to him, a look that he saw no-where else, one that spoke of his importance to her, that he was vital within her world, but mostly that she loved him very deeply. It was at that moment that he felt something well up within him and the anger and despair that he had been feeling for so many days now became challenged, but to what extent he did not dwell on. At that moment he felt more quietened within himself than he had for days and he now fully remembered what John Davey had said when he had pulled him down by the banks of the Mero and the truth of his words rose powerfully within his mind. His job was to stay alive, get on a ship and get home. There was nothing to be gained by losing his life here. He smiled warmly at her.
“Who’s doing the breakfast?”
Her smile was incandescent as she sprung out of the blankets.
“Me!”
As she assembled fuel for the larger fire, John Davey motioned him over.
“I need your mug. Here’s your tea.”
Pike fetched his mug from his pack and handed it over, for Davey to pour in a measure of the dark liquid. There was even sugar. He drank half, then handed the rest to Mary. All over the ridge and close around were similar scenes of domesticity, men washing, drinking and eating their first meal of the day which had been prepared by either their wives or their messmates, the shadows thrown from their fires becoming indistinct with the growing light of the day. There was little talk and even less laughter; today was a day for which they may not see a sunset.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 44
