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

by Martin McDowell

  “Sir, this is Mr. Simmonds. Which grave, please Sir, the one just up?”

  Carravoy looked up.

  “No, there will be an Officer’s grave on the ridgetop. Take him there.”

  They walked on, to pass the open mass grave now dug in the space between the nearest two walls, this for the lower ranks still being brought up from Elvina. Similar was happening just behind the ridge, where as many again of the 105th’s casualties had been brought. All assumed that tomorrow they would embark and so, within the growing dark, this was their only chance to give their comrades a decent burial, for all knew what came with the night after a major battle, and the scavengers would be no respecters of uniform. Deakin himself took the time to find the bodies of Alf Stiles and Sam Peters. Their arms and legs were entwined from where they had been hit back by the cannonball and Deakin had to cut through the straps of their knapsacks and backpacks, then he stood and waited until the burial party came for them

  “These two is to be buried together, in one blanket. You don’t try to pull them apart. There’s no point and they was best mates. Clear?”

  The four men nodded, but Deakin still watched to ensure that his orders were obeyed, then he followed to watch where they were placed. They were lowered down into the grave and the blanket gently eased from beneath them. Satisfied, Deakin turned to leave, but his Colonel was approaching him, so Deakin came to the attention.

  “Deakin! Have you seen the Chaplain?”

  “No Sir! In fact, not for some days, Sir.”

  Deakin looked at the worried face of his Colonel.

  “In fact Sir, it was Parson, I mean Private Sedgwicke, who said a few words for the lads last night. Sir.”

  Lacey looked puzzled and not a little concerned.

  “Really! Sedgwicke?”

  “Yes Sir. We put a few drums together, Sir, and Mr. Heaviside helped out, like.”

  “Where is Sedgwicke now?”

  “I think he’s with the wounded. Sir.”

  Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke was indeed with the wounded, with one in particular; Captain Joshua Heaviside. Sedgwicke was looking concernedly at Heaviside who was sat up, bare chested, apart from a thick swathe of bandages that were encasing his lower ribs, then both of them gave their full attention to Heaviside’s Bible, particularly the oval indentation disfiguring the front cover.

  “It must have hit you a glancing blow, Sir, and hitting your Bible saved you a much more serious injury.”

  Heaviside held The Bible before him to better study the damage, but more to see the gilt cross on the front.

  “I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him. Malachi 3, verse 17.”

  “Amen, Sir. The Lord will protect his true servants.”

  Heaviside remained looking at his Bible as Sedgwicke had further thoughts.

  “Now Sir, should we not get you into Corunna and onto one of the transports, to make you one of the first?”

  Heaviside lowered his Bible.

  “No! I stay with my men. I can walk, so we leave this place of sorrow together. Them and myself.

  “As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee. Joshua 1, verse 5.”

  Sedgwicke sighed, brought some water to him, arranged his tunic around his shoulders against the coming cold and walked away.

  Davey, Miles and Pike trudged wearily up the slope, their chosen destination being The Colours, still prominent, where they knew that Jed Deakin would be, but he was not there, only Harry Bennet. Davey arrived first.

  “Where’s Jed?”

  Bennet pointed behind him.

  “Back over. At the grave.”

  The three trudged on to first see the long line of arranged dead and then the grave, then they saw Deakin. This time Miles spoke first.

  “Jesus, Jed! All these!”

  They all stared over the open grave as bodies were carefully lifted in. Miles was still stunned.

  “There’s hundreds. How many?”

  “Don’t know, as yet, but a lot. It was a rough go, worst I’ve been in. They got Alf and Sam. Same cannonball took both out together.”

  The three looked at him, their faces showing both shock and sorrow, but Deakin continued.

  “They’ve gone in. I saw to it myself.”

  He paused.

  “But they’re still bringin’ lads over.”

  They all looked to see bodies still being delivered to the edge of the cavity in the hillside, brought up from the village and between the stone walls.

  “Some may still be out there wounded, some still down below the village, an’ scavengers’ll be arrivin’ soon. ’Tis not long ’till full dark, an’ there’s still some not brought in. Maybe wounded, so there’s plenty of the lads as is stayin’ out, on guard, like.”

  Davey hefted his rifle.

  “That’ll include me!”

  He walked off to be immediately followed by Pike and Miles.

  Lacey had at last found O’Hare. They shook hands almost absentmindedly, for each could see what had just pre-occupied Deakin and the others. O’Hare began, he was seeing for the first time the extent of the cost paid by the 105th, the cost of their place in the centre of Bentinck’s Brigade.

  “How many? Do you know?”

  Lacey shook his head?

  “No, but I’d guess at a hundred plus. We won’t know until the Rolls are called, and that’s for tomorrow. Priority must be given to burying the dead, now! The French will come forward again, perhaps at dawn, and we must prepare for another defence, perhaps even before the town walls.”

  Lacey changed the subject, partly.

  “Have you seen, Prudoe? I haven’t.”

  O’Hare shook his head and then spoke.

  “Not even with the wounded?”

  “No, not even there.”

  Then Lacey thoroughly changed the subject.

  “They got Simmonds, out below the village. Who do we make Brevet?”

  O’Hare replied instantly.

  “Carr!”

  Lacey was surprised at the immediate reply.

  “Not Heaviside?”

  Then he answered his own question.

  “No, he’s wounded. Lucky to be alive.”

  He paused.

  “Not Carravoy?”

  O’Hare released a breath, halfway between laughter and sarcasm, then he walked off to make a final check of his side of the village for casualties. Lacey walked to the mass grave, now filling up, wondering what to do about the burial service. Something must be done, before they withdrew back to the city. He went to the lines of wounded and found there, thankfully, fewer than he had feared, but the sounds coming from the Surgeon’s tent chilled him as badly as anything that had happened throughout the day. Close by he found Sedgwicke, there with the orderlies and bandsmen, administering to the wounded. Seeing the Colonel, Sedgwicke sprang to the attention.

  “Sedgwicke!”

  “Sir.”

  “I hear you gave a service last night?”

  “Yes Sir. Chaplain Prudoe was heavily indisposed, Sir, and so …..”

  “Yes, yes, Sedgwicke, I hear you, but I want you to do another.”

  Sedgwicke’s forehead knitted in puzzlement.

  “Sir?”

  “That is, if Chaplain Prudoe cannot be found.”

  “No Sir. He cannot. At least, not by me. His tent is empty, Sir.”

  “Right. There’s a grave about to be closed just above the village. I’d like you to say a few words there. I’ll conduct something at the one up here on the ridge. And there’ll be other another after that.”

  “Yes Sir. I’ll get what I need. Should I go now, Sir?”

  “Yes Sedgwicke. And well done! I’ve been told about last night.”

  “Sir.”

  Sedgwicke turned to leave, but Lacey had more to say.

  “The men call you “Parson”, do they not?”

  “Yes Sir. I was one once, and the name has stuck.”

  Lacey nodded.

&nb
sp; “Seems appropriate.”

  Within an hour both were stood at their allocated graves, but both stood waiting, bodies were still arriving, emerging from the almost full dark, but a fitful, yet merciful moon had emerged to give some light. A lantern was found for Lacey, but not for Sedgwicke, but it made little difference. Both spoke of commending their comrades into the hands of God, both spoke the Lord’s Prayer, but their voices were lost in the midst of those around. There was no singing, both Lacey and Sedgwicke judged the men to be too tired. Finally both graves were closed and both men wondered how long they would remain as hallowed ground. Not long, both silently concluded, then both walked to another grave, Lacey for the Officers’, Sedwicke to another of the men, still being filled.

  At the lower end of the village, Davey, Pike and Miles had returned to their wall, now eating and drinking what they had found in French knapsacks, but Davey and Pike were more than half asleep as they automatically fed themselves whilst sitting down leaning against the wall. They had checked that all that remained beyond their wall were French casualties, both dead and wounded. Pike had spent some time giving water to those he found still alive, until ordered back by Davey. Now all three guarded the village, still being searched for men of the 105th. At the last grave, to receive these last being found, stood Sedgwicke.

  Miles, with his rifle poised and balanced on the wall, angrily chewed some kind of sausage, washed down with rough Spanish wine. He was looking over and, sometimes revealed by the scudding clouds across the moon, he could see the shapes of those who had emerged to rob the dead and the sounds of the murder of those still living were reaching his ears. One shape, definitely large, even though the dark hindered judgment, came to his attention. He heard the cry as the knife went in and at that point he decided that he had witnessed enough. He took up his rifle, cocked the hammer, sighted and fired. Smoke and also cloud covering the moon hid all. Davey looked up, now fully awake.

  “What? French?”

  “No. A scavenger bastard murdering some poor sod.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  Miles took another bite of his sausage.

  “Dunno! But I heard a shout of some sort.”

  ***

  The old couple had remained hidden in their cellar, hearing well enough the sounds of battle, but grateful that, so far, the conflict had not spread to their poor building. With the return of peace and the dark, they had sat waiting, but hearing nothing. What they did know all about, was what happened in the dark after a battle and they feared that such thievery would spread to them. Once in the mood, any pillager could as likely rob from the helpless living as the helpless dead. The old man had loaded their ancient family blunderbuss and they sat long into the watches of the night, hoping for no sounds, which would mean all was at peace and had remained so, but suddenly came the sound of violent squealing from the pig pen. One of their animals was either being slaughtered or stolen. The old man; old, yet not unused to violence as part of the family feuds in the hills around, crept out of the cellar door, his mighty weapon cocked and ready.

  At the sty he saw a huge shape just straightening itself from some activity in the pen. The old man raised the blunderbuss and fired. The figure, hit between the shoulders by a dreadful mixture of nuts, bolts and pieces of chain, snapped forward to drape itself over the side of the pen, then remain still. The old man ran back into the house to reload, then came out again to examine the scene. There was no change, so the two, he and his wife, resumed their vigil from within their house until morning. With the daylight they both took themselves over to the pen to find the body of a huge man, legs outside, but head in, at least what was left of it and what was left of the top half of the body. Both the sows and the boar had eaten their fill, from even inside the chest cavity, having used their combined strength to drag the body further over the pen wall. One thing they noticed, was that the figure wore British grey trousers and what remained of a British tunic. Also there was a neat bullet hole in the outside of his right thigh. His hands were massive, as were his boots, but these, too big for either of them, went straight onto the fire, now kindled up for breakfast. The handy knife, however, went into their drawer, whilst the British bayonet was stored for a family heirloom. Finally, with full daylight, the remains were dragged out of the pen by a carthorse, when they could then see a large ‘D’ branded onto what remained of the chest, then all was dragged away down a track to be dumped in the Monelos. It rolled on downstream, then for scavengers of the sea to finish what the pigs had started. Thus passed Seth Tiley from beyond this world to his judgment in the next.

  Ten miles away a weary but delicate hand was knocking at a huge door in a towering wall. He had wandered all night, unguided and confused, until he had blundered into the long high wall and then, by pure chance, turned in the direction that brought him to the door, this with a Cross prominent on both sides. It took some minutes before the knock was answered and then Septimus Prudoe entered into the Monastery. He had never felt more peace or relief in his life as the door swung heavily closed behind him and the sound of the Monks’ prayers at Vigils washed healing through his disheveled mind.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  Home Shores

  John Davey was lolling on the stonework of his own construction, which built to his own design merely two day before, but him barely more awake than the stone he rested on. However, so far he had resisted the waves of sleep by quietly reciting Psalms, as taught at Sunday Dame school. His head was swimming with fatigue, but he still managed to hear the heavy footsteps from the alleyway behind him, which brought him back to a better, but nothing like total, state of consciousness. Before he was fully aware of what was happening a hand came onto his left shoulder.

  “’S all right, mate. We’ll take over now.”

  Davey turned to look into a face barely discernible in the dark, it being so dirty, bearded and sunken.

  “Who’re you?”

  The reply came in a broad West Midlands accent.

  “Sixth Foot! First Warwicks. Best get back on up the hill, yours’ll be marchin’ off soon. We’ve to set fires, make the Frogs think we’re all still holding up here.”

  Davey nodded, for all the good it would do in the dark, then he reached down to rouse Pike and Miles. The response was a sigh from Joe, but a “What’s up?” from Miles.

  “These lads is takin’ over. We’re to get back up.”

  Davey hefted his rifle sling over his right shoulder.

  “Thanks mate. What was it like for you?”

  There was no need to name the subject.

  “Didn’t fire a shot! We was back guarding the town, which is why we’re now up here on rearguard. That’s my guess.”

  Davey nodded, he was too tired for more, but Tom Miles managed a typical distinguished comment.

  “Well then, you was well out of it, well out of it, ‘cos that was as rough a do as I never wants to see the likes of again!”

  It was Davey who responded.

  “Take no notice! He treats everyone the like. At least he spreads it about even. He’s no favourites.”

  The soldier nodded, equally uselessly in the dark

  “I’m not arguing, and that’s why it’s now for you to get on back up!”

  Davey pulled Miles up.

  “Come on! Perhaps there’s tea!”

  The soldier also cheered up.

  “Send us down a drop, if any’s spare!”

  Davey patted him once on the arm.

  “Count on it, if there’s spare, like you say.”

  The three filed back up through the village, walking on one side of the alleyways they used, for the other side was filled with French dead set back against the walls, waiting for their own comrades to re-claim the streets with the coming of daylight, when they expected the British to give up the village. Half way up, Miles stopped.

  “What’s that? Sounds like a wench!”

  With no further word he disappeared into the inky black of a
n alleyway. The two heard words of belligerence, common as from Tom Miles,

  “What’re you doin’ ‘ere, you daft bugger? You can’t stay here.”

  Out from the alleyway came Miles dragging a French drummerboy, complete with drum.

  “What’ll we do with this?”

  Davey examined the small shape, located in the dark by whites of a pair of terrified eyes staring upwards. It seemed that Miles had relented somewhat.

  “May as well leave ‘im here. The French will sweep him up come mornin’”

  Davey had used the time for thought.

  “If he don’t get swept up by the bloody scavengers! They’d kill him just for what he’s wearin’.”

  “What then?”

  Davey paused for more thought.

  “May as well chuck him in with ours. We’ve lost a few, I saw in the grave. He can beat a bloody drum for us same as he can for the French!”

  He resumed their climb upwards.

  “Bring ‘im up. Let some Officer decide, when they gets round to it. Meanwhile, put him in with our drummermites.”

  “And the drum?”

  “Leave it. Belongs to the Frogs!”

  But the boy would not relinquish the drum, putting up a fierce struggle with Miles. At the sound, Davey grew impatient.

  “Oh, let ‘im keep it! What’s so different to a French drum as one of ours?”

  Once through the series of gates in the walls so viciously fought over, with their new charge, who didn’t seem at all inclined to attempt an escape, they sought The Colours, for this would show the whereabouts of Jed Deakin and, most likely their own followers, particularly Joe’s Mary.