They had not been a day out of Corunna before the wind veered and strengthened into a vicious Southwester that they could only run before. The one saving grace was that the motion of the ship affected only the most vulnerable of those prone to sickness, for the hull was moved by a long succession of waves that lifted the stern, then passed on, dropping the stern and then lifting the bows. For three days now there had been nothing but the noise of the wind, the crash of the waves and the clank of the pumps. No-one went on deck, other than the brave few to answer a call of nature and that was perilous enough as each had to inch their way to the bows using the hand ropes and several lost their footing on the pitching, slippery deck to be almost swept out through the scuppers by the retreating water, many owing their lives to alert sailors. So, instead many used the buckets at the bow end of their deck, which added to the reek, but it was safer and no-one concerned themselves with lack of privacy; this was barrack life, albeit at sea and in a storm. However, the deck was kept as clean as possible at the insistence of Beatrice Prudoe, this being well supported by the likes of Jed Deakin and Cyrus Gibney.
There were some hammocks, but by common consent, these had been given over to the children, one now holding the combined brood of Bridie and Nellie, bar Eirin, now counted as grown up and required to shift for herself. As did all other adults, sleeping on their feet, slumped against each other for support and leaning against the hull, which never seemed to be at the same angle for more than two seconds at a time. Others had resigned themselves to being wet, so they simply lay down on their packs and haversacks and went to sleep, simply too exhausted. Many had lain there for all of the three days so far, emerging up into half consciousness to take some food, which was merely water and biscuits, plus whatever they had themselves in their haversacks.
On the fourth day the wind relented to a mere howl and many felt able to venture onto the deck, whose pitching had much lessened, and lesser again was the roll from side to side. The waves still surged up through the scuppers, but at least they no longer came over the rail as solid water. What did come over was a stinging, soaking spray, but mostly up at the bows. The four women, Eirin now being the fourth, and the children, were stood out of this, at the break of the quarterdeck and on the starboard gangway, the higher quarterdeck giving shelter above them and they were on the starboard side, which was in the lee of the wind. The children were with them, as were Saunders, Byford and Bailey, all there to give their strength to any emergency that may imperil the children. Behind them, a second serving of hot food was descending the companionway, but, with the children having been given priority with the first serving, all were now sucking in draughts of fresh air. The very first task, insisted on by Beatrice Prudoe, Nelly and Bridie, and backed up by Jed Deakin, had again been the communal effort to thoroughly clean and freshen their deck and carry up the foul buckets of slops, to be emptied over the side and washed. Done at the very earliest opportunity, all was now completed; therefore all was not of the best, but at least a great deal better. Better to the extent that Eirin’s attention was now much more mindful of where she was and who she was with. So much so, that Nelly and Bridie had noticed her giving several sideways looks to a young sailor working nearby, so frequent that, in her role as irate and protective Mother, Bridie put a hand each side of Eirin’s head and turned it to look seaward.
“Keep your eyes for your own business, you shameless hussy! Setting your cap at any young passing bhoyo as happens to be round and about! Shameless! Just wait ‘till your Uncle Jed hears.”
However, the sailor, not wishing to be the cause of any offence, felt the need to mollify his nearby companions if he possibly could and, in any case, he well recognised the potential of the situation, so he pointed over the side to a faint line of green, just visible through the variations of the intervening murk.
“See that, ladies! That’s Quessant, the last bit of France. You’ve crossed the Bay and so, from now on, you’ll be in the waters of The Channel.”
Eirin, concentrating more on the sailor than what he was pointing at, was the first to react.
“How long till home?”
The sailor delayed his answer, as though thinking, but more as an excuse to look carefully at Eirin, something not lost on Bridie, who looked fiercely from one to the other, but the sailor did finally answer, after looking at the pennant at the top of the mainmast, then grinning openly at Eirin again, which further aroused her good Mother.
“Well, the word is that we’re for Weymouth.”
He paused for more gazing at Eirin, then brought himself back to the question.
“Well, with this wind, we’re about as set fair for that place as you could be.”
Eirin was now openly grinning back, which was rousing Bridie to a state of apoplexy, with Nelly not far behind, but it was Eirin who again spoke.
“Yes! But how long?”
A pause for more fond gazing.
“A day! Or so. We’ll be there tomorrow.”
With that answer, Bridie placed her hands squarely on Eirin’s shoulders and thrust her and her now sullen look, off towards the companionway.
“Thank you, Sir. I’m sure that we’re all very much obliged for your kind attention and information.”
The full stop to this was provided by a push forward on Eirin when she tried to turn her head for a final glance at the sailor, such that Eirin may even have fallen down the companionway had she not finally given full attention to the stairway before her. The children followed, shepherded down by the badly limping Bridie.
Above them, on the quarterdeck, O’Hare and Carr were keeping company with their Captain, a Captain Gavell, a stocky, weatherbeaten man, of a shape that included the desirable low centre of gravity desirable to remain upright on a heaving deck. Both Officers held him in some high regard, for he had brought his ship through the storm with the minimum of damage, certainly none to the precious spars, nor the even more precious masts. All three had telescopes over the stern and slightly off to starboard, where three more ships were keeping them company and all Officers were hoping for good visibility to identify who they were. It was Carr who asked the question, asking it of Captain Gavell, for he had a more powerful, naval telescope.
“Is that the Teignway, Captain?”
Gavell lowered his instrument, but only to wipe the glass of the eyepiece, before sighting again.
“I believe her to be so, yes.”
He paused for another view.
“And undamaged, if I’m not mistaken. That’s Wetherby for you. I’d trust him to get across the Bay without too much damage to his top hamper, and then set about The Channel in like manner.”
He lowered his telescope and looked at both Officers.
“We’re a pair you see, the Dauncy and the Teignway. Sisterships! And on top, he’s my brother in law!”
Both Army Officers laughed then raised their own telescopes for further examination, but it was Gavell who spoke next.
“But there is something that I view with some concern!”
Both looked at him, but nothing was forthcoming, whilst he held to his studying, then he took his telescope away from his eye and pointed.
“Off beyond the Teignway. I can’t identify her, but she’s flying pestilence flags, a yellow and another, in this case a red and white quartered.”
It was Carr who spoke first.
“That means she’s got plague on board?”
Gavell nodded.
“Disease of some sort. Of what sort, well, take your pick. Typhus, dysentery, any one you like, caused by hundreds confined below decks for days on end, all weak and worn out as you are.”
He turned and regarded both.
“Take your pick!”
O’Hare voiced the concern of both.
“Are we clear?”
Gavell nodded.
“As far as I know! I’d say so. Thank your people for keeping their decks clean and the water we shipped that swilled all down through the ship.”
He paused to allow both to listen to the clank that both had come to recognise, then spoke further explanation.
“That’s the pumps sweetening the bilges. At the insistence of your Chaplain’s wife, Mrs. Prudoe, I’m pumping in clean water at the bows and pumping out the foul at the stern. That woman is one piece of work, and she’s right! Disease makes no discrimination between crew nor passengers. A clean ship is everything, that’s how I view it.”
Both nodded mechanically, but Carr was now curious.
“What will happen to that ship?”
“She’ll be the last in. Then they’ll march ‘em all off to some barracks or similar and separate the sick from the well. Those that lasts a week without catching it gets to go, and those that recovers gets to go. For those that dies, well, that’s obvious.”
He resumed his studying through his glass.
“If I’ve not got it wrong, t’other’s clear. So, as we are, we’ll be first in! Landfall tomorrow.”
***
For a crowd, a large crowd, they were strangely silent, as if some sixth sense told them that all was not well. Shrouded in a thin, but cold drizzle, both ships had slowly emerged to take shape, each being carefully towed into the harbour, but all the while, the absence of cheerful faces lining the rails of each told its own story. The crowd, gathered at the first news of troopships back from fighting Napoleon, had stood at first in eager anticipation. The news had been of a victory, but the sight of the two ships with blank, far from joyful faces, gazing in haggard stupor across the brown and green water, told its own story, and so anxiety grew. There were many of the town population on the hill over the water from the main unloading quay and also in the upper stories of the harbour warehouses which marked the back edge of the quay’s surface and from their higher vantage point they could see down onto the decks of the transports crowded with humans dressed in all colours, but mostly pink, faded from red, with a black shako. These were obviously the soldiers, but all had the look and bearing of people in an advanced state of exhaustion and starvation. No seemingly victorious army this, at least not one celebrating, or even raising a cheer to at last be home.
The impression formed within those waiting and watching of the arrival of people at the edge of endurance grew, as the ships were slowly warped closer to the old, worn stonework of the ancient quay and, as the distance lessened, so increased the pity and concern of those stood watching. This was even heightened when, after the gangplanks had been hoisted in place, those on board finally filed off, some limping, the worst to collapse on the quayside, to be helped up by their comrades and then carried forward, to be allowed to lie down at their assembly points. But, equally as alarming for the watchers, was the appearance of all, their clothes and boots worn out to the point of disintegration, all with holes, at least, at one of the four points of knees and elbows and all with rents caused by the simple fact of the cloth coming apart from sheer wear.
All seemed to be wearing a uniform that was too big, even allowing for the fact that, as a garment, it had lost its original shape, but it was the expression on the faces of all that gained the deepest sympathy of the people of Weymouth there assembled. Sunken eyes carried a hunted look that a homecoming had not yet dispelled and all faces were hollow and haggard, thin lips closed tight by jaws too tense to loosen into any kind of warmer expression. However, notwithstanding, the people knew that this was a victorious army, that despite their appearance and evident exhaustion, they had fought the French to a standstill and were deserving of whatever could now be done. There were a few hearty cheers, the odd “Well done, lads!” and sporadic applause, but most concern was attached to the sorrowful state of the men; thus pity vied with admiration.
Both were uppermost in the thoughts of the good Mayor of Weymouth, Councillor James Bower. He stood stock-still, as aghast as any, but he was waiting for the first Senior Officer to disembark. This proved to be Colonel Lacey, coming off the Teignway and Bower immediately moved forward.
“Colonel. Welcome home. Permit me to introduce myself. Councillor James Bower; I am the Mayor here.”
Lacey took the proffered hand.
“Your servant, Sir.”
Bower looked into the tired eyes. This Colonel looked as worn down as his men.
“Colonel. If I may make so bold, you and your men look in poor shape. Is there anything that we can do, the people of Weymouth, that is?”
Lacey looked into the face of the good Councillor and saw only genuine sympathy and concern.
“I thank you for your most kind offer.”
Lacey paused for thought.
“We must return to our barracks in Taunton, but, as you yourself have concluded my men are in none too good a condition to undertake such a march, at least not immediately. If we could remain here, not necessarily under cover, for a day at least, then they could recover somewhat and repair their uniforms and kit. In addition, although the possibility is far from certain, it is possible that new boots and uniforms may arrive. To help with that, I would care to send two letters. You have a mail service from here?”
Bower cheered up at Lacey’s positive tone, all the more so for it being so unexpected.
“We most certainly do, but we can do better than that! At our expense we will provide a courier, well mounted, to deliver whatever you wish.”
Lacey brightened at the kind offer, which would certainly speed up what he most wished for.
“Thank you, that is most kind. I need to send one to my barracks and another to our Regional General, that being General Perry. I could write both immediately, if that does not inconvenience you.”
The good Mayor straightened and leaned back as if the pose would give extra weight to his words.
“Indeed it would not! I will not leave this quayside until you have given me both letters and I will see to their dispatch as my priority on my return to the Town Hall.”
He drew in a deep breath.
“Now. Your men! What are their needs? Food, would be my immediate guess. Hot food.”
Lacey was genuinely moved by Bower’s earnest desire to provide significant help.
“Mr. Bower. I cannot thank you enough for …….”
Bower had held up his hand, his face closed in serious thought.
“This is what we will do. I will martial the Town Council and we will all traverse the town with a piece of chalk.”
Lacey was perplexed, but Bower continued.
“We will knock on each door and enquire how many of your men can be billeted there and we will pay a bounty to each house for every man, as an incentive. And within each house, each man must first be given a hot meal.”
He thought further, as conveyed by his mouth working from side to side.
“Your Officers take your men around the town, both sides of the river, and send in men according to the number chalked on the house.”
He paused.
“It is not yet Noon. With reasonable speed, we can soon have all of your men in some kind of shelter. I don’t expect this weather to improve.”
Bower nodded, evidently pleased with his scheme.
“Now. If I am to get away and gee up my Council, that means I need your letters!”
Lacey’s eyes widened in both agreement and surprise. He looked behind him, somewhat anxiously, but he was there, as duty dictated, he being his Sergeant Clerk Herbert Bryce, carrying all that was required in his satchel.
“Bryce! I need to write two letters.”
With no more words, Lacey walked into the shelter of the wide entrance of a ship’s chandler. He begged the use of the counter and began writing, one letter to their barracks ordering that all available uniforms and clothing be brought to Crewkerne to meet them on their march, if not there, then Ilminster, closer still to Taunton. That done, he penned another, equally brief, informing General Perry that they were marching to their barracks, that their muster was 570 and requesting clothing and supplies. Both were sealed with an unfussy blob of wax into which Lacey im
pressed the Regimental Seal, this being the simple number “105”. Bower had been patiently waiting and he eagerly took both letters and was forthwith on his way.
Lacey then returned to the business of his men, now mostly off the transports and assembling down a side street, where the tall buildings gave at least a modicum of shelter from the thickening rain. Lacey found O’Hare and both thought it best for them both to remain where they were, on the quayside, and there supervise the final disembarkation, which would soon involve the wounded. Thus, neither noticed a young, well dressed man, energetically progressing up and down the lines of men, these not in any ranks, but sitting in the wet road or propped against a back wall. However, he was noticed by Regimental Sergeant Major Gibney, as the young man frequently stopped to ask questions and then scribble on a paper that he had sheltered beneath a square of tarpaulin. Gibney did not like what he saw, this eager chap, bothering his charges. He strode up, which massive motion immediately gained the attention of the object of Gibney’s short walk.
“Now then, Sir, is there anything, now, that we can help tha’ with?”
The young man looked up, then further up, to notice first two very piercing eyes above a hooked nose above the parapet of an imposing moustache, but he was about his trade and was not intimidated.
“Why yes, Sergeant. I’m trying to gather a few facts for my newssheet, the Dorsetshire Echo. I’m asking your men a few questions, now that they have triumphantly returned to the safety of old Albion.”
Gibney found this very irksome; firstly because this youngster had reduced him in rank, secondly, because he was trying to “butter him up” but thirdly, and the most important, he was bothering the men, who plainly just wanted to sit quiet.
“Questions? Questions, tha’ say? About what?”
The stern tone and impatient gaze began to have an effect on the young man, who began by nodding his head.
“Yes. On what happened, how it was, what they think. That sort of thing.”
Gibney nodded.
“Right. Well tha’ can ask that of me.”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 54
