Deakin nodded.
“Thank you, Sir. Very kind, Sir.”
The Doctor duly came over and immediately his face changed when he found that he was not dealing with an Officer but with one of the lower social orders attached to the Regiment. However, the face changed again when he saw a silver sovereign held out in Deakin’s palm. This was duly taken and pocketed before he examined Bridie’s foot. He took but a second to earn the coin.
“Gangrene! My advice would be to lose the foot. The toe alone may suffice, but it’s a risk.”
He stood to look sternly at Deakin, as though it was all of his doing, both the ailment and the fact that he was forced to deal with followers and their kind. Deakin divined the look and returned one equally as stony.
“We’ll settle for the toe!”
Bridie looked horrified, but Deakin continued.
“How much?”
The Doctor remembered the shiny sovereign.
“Two sovereigns.”
“And what will you do?”
The Doctor immediately took umbrage at being so questioned.
“Why, to amputate a toe; a knife and a small saw. Being a middle toe, there could be some difficulty.”
“Making it slow? And very painful?”
Now the Doctor was angry.
“Yes. Of course! There must be some skin left on either side to sew back over the bone!”
Deacon stared fully back.
“Thank you, Sir, but no.”
Bridie remained horrified.
“But Jed ……..”
Deakin had decided. He took hold of one handle of the “chair”, now leant against the wall.
“We’re taking her back.”
The others copied Deakin, the seat was proffered and Bridie sat on it. On their way back across the lawn, Bridie was still protesting with the same words, but Deakin was outlining their own course of action.
“We needs pitch, a mallet and a chisel.”
Bridie wailed, but Deakin now talked to her as tenderly as he could.
“It needs to be done quick. That way you’ll feel hardly any pain, like you would with that sawbones goin’ through the full palaver to earn his two sovs! I’ve seen such as this done before, an’ done quick and it works, too, in every case I’ve known. ’Tis the best way, love. It is. The least pain and the best chance of savin’ your foot.”
He looked up, evidently now speaking to his companions.
“Where do we get what we need?”
Within ten minutes Joe Pike was knocking on the door of Jacob Tilsley and, to his relief, it was quickly answered.
“Joe! Hello to you.”
Joe Pike waited for more words but none came, so he spoke his own.
“Mr. Tilsley, we have to do an amputation on one of our followers, a woman. We have to take off a toe, and we need a chisel, a mallet and some pitch. Can you help?”
If Tilsley was shocked at so crude a request, for so evidently brutal an event, he did not show it.
“You know where the tools are, Joe, and I’ll see to the pitch. They are in the same place, anyway, that you’d know from back along.”
He reached behind the door for his coat and, whilst putting it on, closed his door and began to cross the yard.
“I assume you’ll be getting her drunk?”
Joe had no idea, but it seemed likely and so he nodded, then Tilsley continued.
“Right. Whilst I’m boiling the pitch, you take the tools and, by the time she’s rolling, the pitch’ll be ready. You’re where?”
“By the tent, by the great oak.”
That was all Tilsley needed. They ascended the stairs into Joe’s old workshop and all was as Joe remembered it, thus it was easy for him to find a small chisel and a heavy half sledge. As Tilsley stoked up the coals in the fireplace, Joe touched up the chisel on a whet-stone, then he left. Back with Bridie, he was greeted by Deakin.
“Perfect, Joe. Just the job!”
He examined the narrow chisel, half an inch across.
“Right. Let’s get this clean.”
The chisel was given to Mary for cleaning, whilst the process of anesthetising Bridie had begun, Nelly practically force feeding her rum and brandy in equal measure. Bridie was sat in a chair, her foot on a piece of planed timber. Jed Deakin watched events, studying Bridie for all the signs of being “in another place.” Tilsley arrived, having been waved over by Joe, and he and Deakin shook hands.
“My thanks to you, Sir.”
“No thanks needed. Pleased to help.”
Tilsley leaned forward to examine the foot and nodded. No words were required. He placed the pot of pitch onto the fire to keep it hot and liquid.
When Bridie started singing in Gaelic, Deakin knew that this was the time. Mary brought over the chisel from the boiling water that it had been standing in. She knew not why she did that, but it seemed as good a way to clean the chisel as any. Deakin took the chisel in his left hand and hefted the mallet.
“John, Toby, hold her foot.”
The two did as they were asked.
“Mr. Tilsley, Sir, if you could be ready with the pitch?”
As Tilsley fetched the pot, Deakin knelt and placed the chisel. He looked up at Bridie, who was wailing some lament about what, only God and herself knew. As Tilsley returned, Deakin struck. The chisel went cleanly through into the wood. Deakin first saw that it was bleeding clean with no pus, then Tilsley dapped on some hot pitch. As chance would have it, both Bridie and Deakin stood up together, Bridie howling from the hot pitch, but, whilst Jed concerned himself with being concerned for her pain, Bridie unleashed a ferocious right hook to his jaw that sent him spinning to the ground. Then she passed out. Deakin managed to bring himself to his knees whilst hoots of laughter came from all around. He straightened himself and checked that his jaw was not broken. It was not, and so he shook his head and stood, to then look tenderly at his “wife”, as Nelly wound on the bandage. He picked up the toe and threw it on the fire.
That night, Joe Pike knelt in front of Mary and proposed. She uttered something between a gasp and a laugh almost hysterical. Then she said yes. Both hurried off to see Jed and Bridie. Bridie wept and Jed embraced both, before setting out a small dampener. Joe would need the Colonel’s permission.
***
The following morning, the Lord of the Manor, the yet-to-be-ermined Mr. Coatsley, after a good breakfast, hurried to the ballroom, with Mrs. Gimlet’s complaint buzzing in his head. She followed on, not so much to provide moral support, more to witness what would surely be a relished comeuppance. However, although ready for a ferocious tirade against the senior Officer therein, Coatsley’s ire was blunted by his being prevented an entry. Out through the doors came a seemingly endless queue of wounded, both civilian and soldier and, towards the end, came Major O’Hare. Coatsley pounced on him by forcing himself into the stream of sick and wounded.
“I want a word!”
O’Hare smiled.
“At your service, Sir.”
“My agreement, the conditions on which I allowed you here, have been broken. You have brought wounded and others into my house! Under my roof, into my ballroom!”
O’Hare allowed his face to go blank.
“Sounds terrible! What would you have us now do?”
Coatsley’s voice rose to a shout.
“Why, get them out! All of them!”
O’Hare did no more than smile ingratiatingly and walk on, to then ease a child back into a group of followers. Coatsley looked this way and that, into the ballroom, then out across the lawn. Finally, out came two Orderlies and then the Surgeon, who paid his respects to the now apoplectic Coatsley.
“Obliged for your help and the use of your dance floor. I’m sure we’re very grateful. Best treatment room I’ve ever used!”
Coatsley, although it was wholly subconscious, for he was so angry, beat his riding crop against the leather of his high boot, before stalking off, too fast for Mrs. Gimlet to follow, off to find so
me workers to shout at.
The wounded were on their way to wagons organised and sent by the Mayor of Crewkerne and, whilst they were being tenderly helped up onto the bare boards, but at least under a canopy. The rest of the battalion assembled and within minutes the whole cavalcade was on the road, leaving a heated Coatsley at the end of his drive, with no more outlet for his anger than to watch the closing of his gates upon the final wagon.
Once their men were on the road, Lacey and O’Hare hurried on ahead, mounted on hired horses. The summons had arrived the previous day and they had no choice but to hasten on and respond. As soon as they had achieved their own company, O’Hare asked the question the possible answer to which had long been preying on his mind.
“What do you think he will say?”
Lacey already knew the answer. General Perry’s thoughts on the future and proper role of their men had been made abundantly clear since they first assembled as a battalion of detachments back in 1806 and it was this that formed Lacey’s reply.
“The usual, that we’re of no worthy count as a Regiment. That, as trained men and veterans, we be spilt up to bring other Regiments up to strength. I’d put my house and personal fortune on it, such as it is, but then I never bet for high stakes!”
O’Hare laughed. That was indeed the very predictable outcome of their forthcoming meeting, but he knew the implication.
“So, this could be the end?”
Lacey nodded.
“If Perry has his way, the answer’s yes. Very much so, especially with our Roll now what it is.”
O’Hare nodded and changed the subject and for the next two hours they talked of the campaign they had just returned from, a topic which lasted until their arrival in Ilchester, which was greeted by the Noon chimes of the clock in the tower of St. Mary Major. Lacey looked around, looking for what he assumed to be the premier inn of the village, this being the Denys Arms, to which place General Perry had ordered their attendance. A sign showing the three Danish battleaxes gave him all the lead he needed and soon the pair were inside, to look for the landlord. The said individual was the first they found of the inn’s staff, him being most notable by a series of bulges at the front, of ascending size for any observer working his way down from his nose, to his chin and to his stomach. However, the former two were immediately separated by a wide, cheerful grin.
“Morning Sirs! How may I help?”
Both Officers grinned widely themselves at the avuncular response, and Lacey quickly replied.
“Good Morning. We understand that General Perry is waiting for us, somewhere here?”
The reply was an expansive gesture with his left hand towards the stairs, which hospitable hand remained prominent and inviting as he walked towards that very staircase.
“Indeed so, gentlemen, indeed so. The first room on the left. He has been here some few minutes now, and I have sent up coffee and rolls. Please go up.”
Between rough plaster walls, both men climbed the stairs, which became narrower as they ascended and each step more of a challenge to the builder’s true perception of horizontal. Eventually, a corridor stretched before them and they approached the stated room, for Lacey to then knock on the door. “Enter!” sounded through the thick panelling and Lacey twisted the handle for the door to open. It was plain that Perry had been there for some time, for he had arranged the room to his advantage. The largest table was in the corner, with him behind it, and two chairs placed in lonely isolation some yards away in the middle of the carpet. The said rolls and coffee were behind Perry, within only his reach, on a small chest of drawers. He looked his usual irritated and liverish self, but said nothing other than to indicate the two chairs, inviting them to sit. At this, Lacey picked up one of the chairs and moved it to a more social distance and within reach of the table, which brought a look of annoyance to Perry’s face, at Lacey’s effrontery to make changes to his arrangements already made. Having sat, with O’Hare beside him, Lacey opened the discussion; coldly, for there was no love lost between these two.
“Good afternoon Sir. You have some business with us?”
Perry nodded, ignoring O’Hare, and came brutally to the point.
“Moore’s army is now disbanded, so, you are now under my command! Your muster is now even less than 570, I assume, now that your surgeon has been at work?”
Lacey’s face remained deadpan.
“Yes Sir, some more wounded have now been discharged unfit. We are now on 553.”
Perry nodded, evidently well pleased with this confirming information.
“Right! I’m classing you again as Detachments. I have two Regiments of the Line to bring up to strength, both the 14th First Somerset and the 40th Second. Two hundred and more men each will bring both to almost full battalion strength. You two can return to pasture.”
He paused to allow the relished sentences to sink in. When he discerned no particular reaction he felt the need to add more, perhaps that would have the desired effect.
“Horse Guards are assembling another army, this time under Wellesley to return to the Peninsula. I expect one or both of the 14th and 40th to be called for.”
Again no reaction; two blank faces remained, regarding him from the short distance across the table. He continued.
“I expect you both to divide your force into two equal parts and await orders at Taunton.”
Lacey draped his right arm across his belt, sufficiently to support his left elbow as his left hand rubbed his chin. That done, he exhaled. This had been a wasted journey and he disliked Perry all the more for it. This could have been done via a letter, but Perry, for his own personal satisfaction, too much delighted in the idea of saying it face to face. Lacey reached back to the insolent tone he has used as an Ensign to superiors he had little liking for and even less respect.
“Will that be all, then, Sir?”
The sight of Lacey’s deadpan, ‘see-if-I-care’ face, turned Perry’s irritation to anger, but Lacey’s acceding attitude gave him no excuse to make it manifest. However, it did help for him to repeat again, forcefully, the reason why he had summoned the two.
“In two wings, Lacey, then ready for further orders.”
He fixed him with a malevolent stare.
“Report back here in four days time, same hour. Back here, Lacey!”
Lacey nodded and rose from his chair, as did O’Hare. As Perry’s wishes would mean both leaving the army, neither bothered to salute, for Perry’s evident satisfaction with the moment had not been lost on O’Hare. Then they turned and left the room, if this irritated Perry further, he did not say so. They would have ignored him anyway.
***
It was a hullabaloo that grew with every step, as the two parts of the whole came closer together, the 105th climbing the last hill, the families and the friends of the Regiment’s men coming down it. They had marched out themselves with the dawn to hasten the meeting. When a collision seemed inevitable the wave of joyful and cheering humanity parted around the Colour Party to flow on, down either side. Sergeants on the flanks, out of the marching files, looked more than a little concerned at the threat to their precise parade, especially Gibney, but these were all families of the military and knew well enough the form. They stood to the side to wave and shout, allowing the march to continue and, thus, even Gibney mellowed into softer feelings as the women and children cheered their men home, forming a noisy escort on the flanks. However, there was the inevitable anxiety present. The people had not the smallest inkling who was alive or dead and two sentences were most often heard “There he is!”, or “I can’t see him, can you?”
Once halted inside their old barracks, at “fall out” the men flew into the arms of family, then friends, but amongst the cries of joy were heard cries of heartbreak as many learnt that their men remained in a faraway grave, often in a place too bleak and obscure to have ever been given a name. Soon, these could be seen sat or slumped against the parade ground wall, often with but a small bundle of possessions brought
home by the comrades of their men now dead. It was small compensation, but of some measure, when Jed Deakin handed the bundles of Alfred Stiles and Sam Peters to their relations, for each contained their small hoard of the rescued sovereigns. They thanked him and shook his hand, before joining the mournful procession now exiting at the gate.
For some there was a genuinely sentimental and tearful parting. Nelly, Bridie and Beatrice Prudoe embraced amid heartfelt sobs and kisses, but Beatrice had remained steadfastly hopeful.
“My husband may yet arrive, who’s to say, but whatever, I’m going to start a school. Nearby. So, whilst you are here, you must send your children. And you must come around yourselves. I insist! We must keep in touch.”
At that Nelly and Bridie looked at each other, both immediately knowing the problem, but Bridie spoke it.
“Well now, if you’re sure, Mrs. Prudoe. I mean, the likes of us, y’see. Well, we wouldn’t want to be causin’ you any embarrassment from the likes of us turnin’ up, sort of thing, amongst your own fine acquaintances.”
Beatrice Prudoe put her arms around Bridie.
“It won’t be in that part of town. It will be where the children are, and you will be very welcome. You will! So, do come. I will let you know where.”
Nelly felt the need to counter such maudlin thoughts at their time of parting and flicked Bridie’s arm with her fingers.
“Now sure, it’ll be alright, will it not, if you puts on your best frock?”
All three laughed and Beatrice Prudoe left, giving a last wave at the gate for Nelly and Bridie to enter the barracks proper and re-acquaint themselves with their old barrack room. As they entered the outside door, Nelly stood back to watch Bridie enter and she observed a walk with barely a limp.
“So, how’s your foot?”
Bridie turned and then spoke softly.
“Fine. ’Tis healing well. Very little pain and the pitch is about to fall off, but don’t tell Jed. I fancy the excuse to hit him once again!”
To gales of laughter the two women pushed open the once familiar door of the dark, dingy and stable like room that was to be their latest home, but also a repeat from the past. It looked as it always had, the small “crib’ cubicles around the sides, the tables and chairs in the centre, the cooking fires and the high windows, fixed closed. Thus, it smelt as it always had, stale from much used air and the left over smells of dust, damp, and too overcrowded humanity.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 57
