“You, Sergeant?”
“Aye. I were there. What thee can get from them, thee can get just as well from me.”
The reporter’s face considerably brightened as he turned back the tarpaulin.
“Right!”
However, before he could either ask or write, Gibney’s huge hand was covering the page, already written on.
“I’ll tell thee this, an’ no need to write it down, for thee’ll remember it.”
He leaned down to stare directly into the young man’s eyes.
“For six month, we fought the French. Two battles, won, then a march, a retreat, then another at t’end of that, a battle, that is, again won! It were bloody awful, beyond what thee can imagine. Come final, the French could put out more than us could handle, an’ so we had to get out an’ go, leaving’ hundreds of good lads and their followers behind. Women and children.”
He leaned back.
“Now, thee can write that down an’ use it, but the rest th’gets from what thee can see. Just take a good look, that’ll gain thee all th’needs to know.”
He paused, for effect.
“This is what fightin’ the French amounts to! An’ if I sees thee botherin’ these lads some more, I’ll see thee out of here, with my boot up tha’ backside!”
The young reporter remained transfixed under the stoney stare for some seconds, but, eventually, the unrelenting condemnation of that baleful gaze had its effect. He tucked the tarpaulin shield down over the paper, nodded and sidled off, taking the first side street that took him out of Gibney’s hostile attention. With that, Gibney took himself off to supervise the placing and comfort of the wounded, now arriving in the street.
Lacey and O’Hare were watching the last of the wounded come ashore. The condition of his men, hidden from him by the crowding and gloom of the lower decks was now in view apparent and he was both angry and saddened that the men of his battalion, for whom the last few months had engendered within him the deepest respect and no small affection, were now brought to so low a state. This was not in any way ameliorated by what came next, this being a Sergeant of Transport approaching and standing at a respectful distance at the attention, but plainly wishing for Lacey’s attention, who did finally notice him and so turned to receive a full salute.
“Sir! I’m hoping that you can help me, Sir!”
Lacey clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward.
“With what, Sergeant?”
Remaining at rigid attention, the Sergeant continued.
“Sir, I have four wagons with new kit, Sir. Sent down by General Perry, to be issued to whatever troops landed here, Sir, this place here being within the General’s command.”
Lacey turned towards O’Hare, for both to share a look of pleasant surprise, but it was O’Hare who asked the question.
“Kit! Does that include new tunics, trousers and boots? Plainly, those are our greatest need.”
Fear passed behind the eyes of the Sergeant.
“No Sir. ’Fraid not, Sir.”
The Sergeant’s jaw clamped shut. O’Hare leaned forward.
“Then what do you have on your four wagons, compliments of the General?”
The Sergeant’s mouth opened, then shut, then he began speaking.
“Crossbelts and shakoes, Sir. Crossbelts with new bayonet scabbard and cartridge box.”
The look the Sergeant received from both very superior Officers did nothing to ease his discomfort, but he was veteran enough to know that brevity was the safest course. He said no more. Lacey and O’Hare looked at each other again. Lacey look appalled, which emotion and appearance was mirrored in O’Hare, but it was the former who now spoke.
“How many men do you have, Sergeant?”
“Seven, Sir, besides myself.”
Lacey nodded. He did have some sympathy for the plight of this NCO.
“Very well. Draw up your wagons onto the quayside. Issue what you can to whomever you see, then take the old, which you are replacing and load it onto your wagons for your return journey. Take good care of it.”
He smiled, which did much to ease the anxiety of the Sergeant.
“Can’t have you losing your stripes for destroying the King’s property, now can we?”
The reply was a rapid salute and the Sergeant executed an about turn and gratefully marched off. O’Hare watched him go, then turned to Lacey.
“Whatever was he thinking?”
The subject was plainly General Perry rather than the Sergeant, now departing. Lacey shook his head.
“Who knows? Parade ground appearance, as we march back through the towns and villages. Perhaps he thinks that it’s only our brightwork that’s suffered and that’s all that needs to be brought up to standard.”
O’Hare laughed cynically.
“What was it I read somewhere: “Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched by much rainy marching in the painful field”?”
Lacey laughed in reply.
“Yes! Perhaps our esteemed General should re-read Henry V. If he’s read it all!”
Both men folded their arms together, savouring the thought, but it was Lacey who first stepped away.
“Right! Let’s see if the good Mayor’s chalk marks are making any kind of appearance. I’ll do the far side.”
However, they did not yet leave the quay, for anxiously coursing up and down the wide expanse, looking at anyone in a uniform, could be seen Beatrice Prudoe, the level of her anxiety plainly increasing as the worry on her face spread its contagion down to her hands that were now wringing themselves together into fretful shapes. Lacey went over to her, but despite his words, she continued her peering into any door or window within sight.
“My dear Mrs. Prudoe. Is there something amiss?”
She nodded, then continued her desperate searching. Lacey immediately became almost as anxious as she.
“What is it? I would like to know. Please calm yourself and tell me.”
At last she turned to face him.
“My husband, the Chaplain. He is not here and I have not seen him since before the battle.”
Her voice rose to a tremulous sob.
“I cannot see him!”
Lacey called up O’Hare.
“The Chaplain. Have you seen him?”
“No Sir. Not since we got onto Corunna ridge.”
Lacey released a long sigh.
“Was he in the casualty lists?”
“No Sir. I compiled them myself.”
Lacey looked from one to the other, twice. The Reverend Prudoe had disappeared. He may show up, he may not, but for now his wife must be cared for.
“All is not lost Mrs. Prudoe. He may be on another ship, all was very confused. Meanwhile, please accompany us to Taunton, where you will be well cared for. You have my assurance.”
The evident concern of the Colonel, no less, did much to raise her spirits and Lacey continued.
“I’m under the impression that you have strong acquaintances amongst the followers?’
She nodded.
“Then may I suggest that you re-attach yourself to them. They are all good and hardy souls whom I’m sure will get you up to Taunton with us.”
He pointed to the 105th ‘s side street.
“I believe they are down there, with our men. I’m sure that’s the best place, if only for now.”
They watched her leave and were re-assured themselves when, by pure coincidence Bridie and Nelly emerged from around the corner with their children, to immediately welcome her back into their company. Lacey turned to O’Hare.
“Right. That’s done, now let’s see where the men are to go.”
For the next hour and more, both toured the houses on both sides of the river Wey until they decided that sufficient numbers had now appeared on the doors of the surrounding houses, then both returned to the quayside. A quick gathering of Officers soon explained all and soon after that groups of soldiers were marching around the town, the Officers leading not only their own men but a mixtur
e which included many of the 20th, 52nd, 56th, and 14th .
What was also a mixture was the reception that they received. In the terraces and cottages around the harbour, the men who came to count themselves as lucky, were made as welcome as the poor means within these dwellings would allow. However, at the more affluent houses, these now extending fashionable Weymouth both South to Portland and North to Dorchester, the beggarly sight of the soldiers, accompanied by the sight of crawling lice and a strong human odour, resulted in the ‘guests’ being immediately sent through the house to shift for themselves as best they could in the cellars below and the sheds beyond. The lucky one’s were soon stripped of their clothing, notwithstanding the livestock contained therein, for both to be washed, while the men stood in one portion of the yard, using buckets of water to clean themselves. In another portion of the yard their uniforms were now in the tubs, being pounded by the women of the house, pounded to the point which threatened their final disintegration. Yet, come the evening all were before the fire, the uniforms drying and the soldiers sat wrapped in blankets, talking with the men of the house, whilst the women, including the followers, attempted some repairs to the first clothing to dry. However, whatever the warmth of their welcome, all had been well fed.
The following day, all formed up on the esplanade to the East of the river, which terrace carried the Dorchester road, going North, the column with the 105th in the lead, then an assemblage of the various Regiments behind. All paraded there were now much improved, from a good night’s sleep, a wash, of sorts, and a clean uniform, albeit one barely hanging together. Over this, in much contrast, which emphasised the poor state of their uniforms, were the brand new, bright white crossbelts, with a shiny new shako above that, whilst between the two, could be seen a still very haggard face. However, what was not new on either was the regimental badge showing on the belts, nor the faceplate on the shako. These had been retained by all, replacing the “other” that had been found there.
As much in appreciation as in sympathy, for the Mayor’s bounty had been very generous, many of the population had turned out, ‘to give a cheer’ and bid farewell, which was done with gusto as the soldiers marched off, but there was no singing; only the rhythmic beat of weary feet. Soon they were amongst the hills inland and onto the straight Roman road that led directly into Dorchester, but here far fewer of the townspeople were making an appearance to view their passing or to pass on supplies or even sympathy. The “affair of Moore” was turning into a scandal and few wanted any part of it.
***
Chapter Eleven
Homecoming
“Henry! Wake up!”
Carr opened his eyes and, after a third effort, managed to keep them open. Merely an hour previous, he had again submitted to the overwhelming lethargy that had fallen upon him since they left Corunna harbour and this time sleep had been deep and irresistible, all the more so for the fact that this time he was lying on a proper bed. However, now he was being violently woken by Nat Drake. Carr managed to focus on the deeply concerned face, to which he eventually cudgelled his brain to pay attention. It was speaking further.
“They’re here!”
Carr blinked twice, imagined himself to be lying on the ground and consequently rolled forward to almost fall off the bed, only to be saved by Drake pushing him back.
“They’re here! Cecily and Jane!”
The last name cleared his brain like an April wind clears fog.
“Jane? Here?”
Drake showed his impatience.
“Is that not exactly what I have been saying?”
He found Carr’s shako and placed it on the bed before his face.
“They heard that we’ve landed, and have come down in a carriage, to meet us. Which includes you!”
He stared intensely at his superior Officer; superior in every way except coping with such an occasion as was now upon them both.
“You’ve got to come downstairs, they’re waiting”
He paused whilst the bleary eyes before him blinked in continued amazement.
“Jane can’t come up here, much too unseemly! So, smarten yourself up! This is your prospective intended whom you are about to be re-united with.”
Carr swung his legs off the bed, which only caused him to see his horrible boots. He stood and did his best to obey Drake’s order, using the corner of the carpet on the boots. He picked up his shako and made for the door, but Drake stopped him, took the shako and placed it on his head.
“You need something to remove, from your head, to show good manners and respect. Very important!”
Carr nodded dumbly and followed Drake out onto the landing and down the stairs. At the bottom was a door and Drake, albeit in the gloom, turned to make a final examination of Carr. There was much that was wrong, but it could not be helped. He opened the door into a room well lit by wide windows either side of the front door. Whilst Drake walked forward to close with his beloved Cecily, Carr stood stock still, inevitably failing to remove his headgear. He was brought to a halt, for, framed in one of the windows, was a pure vision, of two figures, both radiating sweet grace and healing tranquility, both achingly lovely and both smiling at him. His view of Cecily was immediately blocked off by Drake running forward, so that only Jane remained in view, she in a full length slate grey coat, edged with maroon, with a matching bonnet and hand muff, but he saw her face quickly change from her own joy at seeing him, to one of deep concern, almost dismay, as she examined him further. She had looked first at his face, with the now extraordinary, and alien, colours of his black eye. The lack of flesh on his face accentuated both his scars, one bisecting his left eyebrow, the other in the centre of his forehead, exactly on his hairline. His uniform was a poor fit, with many sags, folds, patches, and sewn up rents. She did not fail to notice that the worn notch on his belt, the point where it was most commonly fastened, was now two places outside the belt buckle.
“Henry, you look terrible!”
He nodded without thinking, his mind still taking in what was before him, waves of delight and surprise almost overcoming his ability for conscious thoughts, which came, when they did, in staccato phrases; ‘It’s Jane! She’s taken the trouble to come down to meet him. He still mattered to her, a lot. Is that what it showed?’ Then, particularly for this occasion, the clumsy societal requirements broke into his thoughts, to produce the necessary greeting, which brought the automatic action of him finally baring his head.
“Miss Perry. I trust you are well and also your parents, that they are well.”
Jane could not help but giggle at the absurdity of such a speech in such circumstances, but she curtsied and replied, in proper form.
“Captain Carr. I am quite well, thank you, as is my Father.”
Gloom and confusion overtook Carr. Jane had not mentioned her Mother, but she spoke no more. She simply stood regarding him with her familiar half smile, but there was full happiness in her eyes; deep brown, both staring at him with an unbroken gaze. By now Carr had at last thought of something better to say.
“Did you get my letters?”
Her head went to one side to now regard him from the corners of her eyes and she lowered her shoulders; it was almost coquettish.
“Yes. Three! Was that how many you wrote? Cecily got four!”
At last the spell was broken and Carr managed an embarrassed smile and rubbed the side of his face.
“Well, there was a fourth, but I had to post it at Sahagun, where the retreat started. My only excuse is that sacks of mail soon lost any importance. Nat got his last one off at Mayorga, some days before.”
At the mention of the retreat, her face fell.
“Was it that bad? The papers are full of it. And nothing complimentary.”
Carr nodded.
“Yes, it was bad. The papers won’t convey the half of it.”
Then he angered.
“And I’ve seen no report of Corunna! Was there nothing of that? Of the men standing for hours under fire,
and yet having enough in them to fight the French to a standstill? If not, then it’s a disgrace!”
She smiled. This was her old belligerent Henry, but always in a good cause. She started across the room and he moved also, his hands hesitatingly reaching out in the hope of meeting hers and they were not disappointed. He felt her hands, soft and warm; she had deliberately removed her gloves. She was now but feet away and his affection for her welled up, to arrive intensified from the wonderful surprise, but this was as much because of what her presence signified. Not only was she someone whom he could believe cared about him, but she also confirmed his return to that other world, the one that he could barely dream about over the past months. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he dared not chance offending her by moving any closer, unlike Drake and Cecily who were in the corner breaking all the rules, faces well within kissing distance.
She tugged his hands, but did not release them.
“We can’t stay long. Father thinks we’re out for a ride. For a bit of fresh winter air! We have to get back. Crewkerne’s a bit further than Father has in mind after we’d told him what we were doing.”
Carr wasn’t listening. His senses were only tuned to what his eyes could see, his cherished Jane, but he had a concern of his own, a much deeper topic and he voiced it quietly.
“What are we going to do?”
She tugged his arms again.
“We, are going to write to each other, and, we, are going to meet, whenever we can!”
Her next words sent his hopes soaring further, each phrase spoken with a pause in between, to give added emphasis.
“I am over 21. I have obtained my majority. I am of independent means. In fact…..“
She held up her head at a haughty angle.
“………… I am now described as a spinster of this parish!”
The significance of that was left hanging, but then Drake broke in, still holding Cecily’s hand.
“Did you know that he’s now a Major? Only Brevet, that’s true, but that’s the first step.”
He turned to Cecily.
“And, if it’s confirmed, then I have a very good chance of being made up to…..”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 55
