Once settled in, John Davey took himself over to the crib occupied by Joe Pike and Mary.
“Joe, you can write a bit, can’t you?”
Joe Pike’s face screwed up.
“What for?”
“A letter.”
Pike shook his head.
“Not well enough for it to get there.”
He paused.
“Parson’s the one.”
Davey nodded.
“Parson! Who else!”
A run and trot took Davey to the quarters of the Regimental Chaplain, to find Sedgwicke carrying vestments and the few other trappings of office that he did have, into the spacious rooms reserved for the Chaplain.
“Parson! I needs you to help me write a letter. To Molly and the family.”
Sedgwicke’s face split into a wide grin at the thought of Molly, the beauty who had been so kind to him, when others would not, back in the days when this barrack had been their long term home. Sedgwicke and Davey had shared a crib together, before Molly moved in, but even then she had treated him kindly despite the overcrowding.
“Of course! Do you have their address?”
Davey pulled out a much worn envelope containing a letter. Whilst he could not read each word in its place, he knew them all, in the correct order, off by heart. This had also been written by a Cleric, the incumbent of the church of Far Devening where Molly had moved to join Davey’s Mother whilst he was away. She had taken her own daughter, ’Tilly, with her and had there given birth to John, Davey’s own child. Sedgwicke fetched paper, quill and ink and led Davey into his own cubbyhole of a room.
“Now, what do want to say?”
“Dear Molly, I am writing to say that I am now home. Safe and well.”
“No! It should begin: Dearest Molly, I have returned and cannot wait for us to be back together again, now that I am home, safe and well.”
Davey nodded, grinning broadly.
“Yes! Yes, that’s it, Parson. That’s the start.”
Sedgwicke began writing.
Elsewhere, another leftover piece of business was being tidied up. Sergeant Major Gibney was at Lacey’s office door, announcing his presence with a rapid knock of three.
“Sir. Private Joseph Pike’s here, Sir, waitin’ outside, and would like to see you. Sir.”
Lacey did not look up, although he was stood up, examining the appearance of two imposing letters, one of several pages with a Horse Guards cover, the other with the crest of the Prince of Wales, no less. He felt certain that both would reveal good news and was immediately ebullient.
“What’s he want?”
“Permission to get married, Sir.”
Now Lacey did look up.
“Married?”
He threw back his head, his brows coming together, as if to help his memory.
“He’s took up with Mary Mulcahey, has he not. Pat Mulcahey’s daughter.”
“Sister in law, Sir, and she’s an O’Keefe. Bridie Mulcahey’s youngest sister.”
Lacey’s face showed his puzzlement at the mistake, but nodded anyway.
“Tell him yes.”
He paused but not for so long that Gibney had the time to leave.
“She lost her baby.”
It was not a question, more a statement of fact.
“Yes Sir. On the retreat.”
“We make a show. And help out, too. The Regiment! Yes?”
Gibney took that as an order, which required a salute, which was duly delivered. Within a minute Joe Pike was running across the parade ground, but his mind registered not one step. Within one minute more, all on the parade ground could hear a loud cheer emerging down the corridor from one particular barrack room. None there in the square knew the reason, save RSM Gibney, who permitted himself a rare smile, but that only to himself.
Meanwhile, Lacey had opened both letters. He read both and his mood improved immeasurably still further. Almost laughing, with one in each hand, he turned to his office door.
“Bryce!”
Herbert Bryce appeared in seconds.
“Fetch Major O’Hare. Tell him immediate, that nothing could be more important!”
Bryce saluted and left. He found O’Hare in his own office and so it was but two minutes lapsing before O’Hare was entering the door of Lacey’s office. Lacey thrust both letters at O’Hare simultaneously, so he took both and read the one in his right hand first, then the left. As he did so a huge grin spread across his face.
“What are you going to tell Perry?”
Lacey’s eyebrows reached his hairline.
“Nothing, as yet. Damnable man! He can find out when we go back to report. ‘On progress’, as he put it.”
O’Hare grinned a reply, then both settled down to re-read the letters several times more.
***
The forthcoming marriage may have been the cause of the rare smile from RSM Cyrus Gibney, or it may not, but whichever, come the next day several yards of white muslin arrived at one particular barrack room. It was immediately pounced on by every women there who had any level of seamstress skills and, for the next days, and for lengthy and unscheduled periods, men were banned from the room during daylight hours, Nelly Nicholls being the first to intercept any interlopers, by working close to the door.
The due day arrived. The ceremony was planned for the afternoon, which gave time for attention to the last details of dress and uniform and all were determined on the full observation of every propriety and tradition. Mary put a blue trimming onto the hem of her dress, but not quite completed, giving her something to sew up immediately prior to leaving the room. There were no mirrors anywhere to worry about, so that concern did not arise. She left the barrack room on the arm of Major O’Hare to leave the building itself over a swathe of smashed crockery on the doorstep to the parade ground. A fiddler bandsman led her to the point where stood a local chimney-sweep, who upon kissing the Bride released a black cat from his sack, who immediately hared in through an open window. Leaving behind both the fiddler and the sweep, both Bride and her Escort proceeded to walk across the front of the Light Company. These were all drawn up in full dress uniform, providing a guide into the gap of an open square, these Lights being drawn up at right angles to this opening. Carr was at the front with Drake and Shakeshaft, both stood before their respective Sections, all now immaculate in their new uniforms. As the pair came level with the first files, Carr bellowed “Present Arms!” The clash of hands on muskets, accompanied with the flash of polished swords and bayonets had quite an effect on Mary, something between shock and embarrassment, that such was being done for ‘Little me’, but everyone knew of the tragedy that had befallen her and Joe. Nothing was too much trouble, which sentiment was shared by the rest of the Battalion waiting drawn up in a hollow square.
Within, stood the local Vicar, beaming, chubby and avuncular, “apple cheeks” thoroughly port stained, waiting joyfully, in conjunction with all others present, and unarmed; the Vicar would not countenance any weapons at any religious occasion officiated over by him. The followers formed a small block off to the left, whilst Lacey and the Colour Party were off to the right, lined up in front of that side of the square. Behind the Vicar, was a stack of drums, but these were not to be used, instead before him he had a small lectern, portable, it being constructed for just such an occasion as this. Stood facing this was Joe Pike, quaking but not from the cold. Beneath his tunic that had been carefully prepared by Tom Miles, he was wearing a thick shirt made by Mary over the days before. Three paces from him, O’Hare halted and Mary walked on to take her place at Joe’s side. The Light Company, having piled arms, marched smartly in to form Joe’s part of the congregation, which, until then had merely been the lonely figures of his Parents, brothers and sisters, summoned by horsed messenger and brought by coach, paid for from battalion funds. Mary’s section was from amongst the followers who were all close friends or relations, with their husbands, which included Jed Deakin and Henry Nicholls; ‘excused parade�
�� for this occasion.
The Vicar opened his Book of Common Services and placed his hands on the leaves to prevent them blowing shut. Thus came the first words.
“Dearly Beloved. We are gathered here together, today, to witness this day the joining of ………”
He got no further before his words were almost drowned by the wailing of Bridie and Nelly, both wholly overcome, both clinging to each other for some form of support, even the simultaneous shout of “Shut up, woman,” from Jed and Henry had no effect. Eventually their suffering subsided enough to hear the Vicar ask the first vital question.
“Who brings this woman here to give her away to this man?”
The reply from O’Hare contained more than a small hint of challenge.
“I do!”
The exchanging of vows that followed set off more wailing but not as disruptive as before and the Service continued until the triumphant pronouncement from the Vicar, spoken as though he was being witnessed from above by the full complement of the Heavenly Host.
“I now pronounce you man and wife!”
They kissed as Gibney organised the rousing three cheers, then Lacey and O’Hare both shook Joe’s hand and kissed Mary, she still in a state of shock at all that was being done in her honour. The pair, pelted with rice, then made their way back to their barrack room, where a fine meal was being prepared of beef, pork, potatoes, peas, and, a thorough exception, greens and parsnips, all followed by a fruit suet pudding, but first came the breaking of the bride’s pie, and all broke off a small portion, as it was passed around. Although not enjoying the same meal, the rest of the Regiment gave thanks to the pair as a double ration of rum came around. With the Wedding Breakfast dispensed with, so began the celebrations. Mary danced the wreath dance, surrounded by some ‘married’ women, which was sedate enough, but finished somewhat before due time when the men grew impatient at the prolonged delay of their drinking time and so Zeke Saunders reached into the ring and seized the wreath. Tradition then returned when he broke it up and scattered the remains. Finally, Mary put on a matron’s cap to mark the end of her ‘spinster days’. As the day ended and the singing and dancing spilled out onto the Square, to everyone’s surprise, bar Lacey, O’Hare and Gibney, a fine coach and pair came in through the gates to whisk the pair off to a local Hotel. Even in their absence the celebrations continued until the twelfth stroke of midnight. It had been, altogether, a most splendid wedding!
***
The following day, with his command unsurprisingly quiet, Lacey and O’Hare once more set out for Ilchester. Both were in the best of moods; perhaps it was the signs of an early Spring, perhaps it was this moment of freedom from command, or perhaps it was the two letters secure inside Lacey’s tunic. He regularly felt inside to touch the smooth vellum, just to make sure that they were still there, and perhaps this added extra relish to what was about to transpire. The journey seemed to pass quickly and, once there, they stabled their mounts and entered the inn, to be confronted by a young potboy.
“Morning Sirs. How can I help?”
Lacey was in the lead.
“Good morning to you, young fellow, but no help needed, thank you. We know where we need to go. Been here before, you see.”
O’Hare, following up, gave the lad a coin anyway. They came to the door and, before knocking, shared a wicked grim. Lacey knocked in a rhythm of three.
“Enter!”
They did so and found the room arranged as before and again Lacey re-arranged it again, as he had done before. Perry’s face darkened and he spoke, before they had sat down.
“My order to you. To divide into two wings.”
Lacey looked at him calmly, but Perry was impatient.
“Well?”
A pause.
“You understood my orders?”
Lacey noted the challenging tone, then reached into his tunic to extract the two letters, which he spread with his right hand, as though displaying two playing cards.
“Yes Sir, but I rather think that events have moved on and that you need to take into account the content of these two letters, which I have here.”
He carefully selected one.
“This one came direct from Horse Guards. It says that we are to ready ourselves to join Wellesley’s army to sail sometime in April back to Portugal. General Wellesley has specifically asked for us. It says that our District General, that being you Sir, has been informed regarding bringing us up to strength from the Somerset Militia.”
Lacey watched the change spread over Perry’s face, from secure impatience to insecure doubt.
“Have you not received anything on that, Sir? You should know something about it. By now, that is.”
The response was the doubt turning to embarassment. Perry acknowledged within himself that he had lately been neglecting his duties, but Lacey continued, having placed the first letter, still folded, on the table.
“This other letter is, well, from our Colonel in Chief, Sir. That being the Prince of Wales.”
This letter Lacey then carefully opened and turned so that it lay on the table the right way up for Perry, revealing the gorgeous letterhead; the lion, the unicorn and the shield, all occupying a quarter of the page. The look of annoyance returned, but somewhat concerned, worried, even, for an affront to the Prince of Wales was career suicide. Seeing that Perry was not going to read it, Lacey took his hand away, allowing the heavy vellum to re-curl itself.
“It says that I am to send a Colour Party to Bath, Sir. For our old Colours to be laid up and new ones presented. Somehow, I mean perhaps, his Highness has used his influence, because we are to be given three new battle honours.”
Lacey paused and re-opened the letter to point half way down.
“There Sir. Rolica, Vimeiro and Corunna.”
He took his finger away, because Perry had made no move towards it.
“Did you not know about that, either, Sir?”
This time he saw anger, but Perry’s jaw was merely working, not speaking; however his eyes matched his jaw, darting feverishly hither and thither. Lacey continued, looking puzzled and sounding it.
“I’m not sure how that sits with your orders from our previous visit? Sir.”
Perry seized the Horse Guards’ letter and began to read it, his hand shaking. He then looked directly at Lacey, his eyes fierce and angry.
“This reinforcements thing. We’ll have to see. The 14th and the 40th have a prior claim, especially if they are also to join Wellesley.”
He folded both letters and carefully placed one upon the other, as though being folded and piled would reduce their significance. However, the letter from the Prince of Wales, being of the thickest vellum, disobediently unfolded itself to tip the Horse Guards letter back onto the table. Both were now visible, joint participants to the defeat of his cherished ambition. Lacey nodded.
“As you say, Sir.”
Lacey then placed both hands on the edge of the table, as though about to rise.
“Well, Sir. If there is nothing further then, please, I have things to attend to, as listed there.”
He pointed to the Horse Guards’ letter and paused to look fully at Perry, who nodded curtly, but Lacey leaned forward to pick up the letters but not remove them, simply to look directly at Perry in order to fully make the point.
“I would like to take these with me, Sir. For the Battalion records, you understand. I mean they could add to our Regimental chronicle. I’m sure your own copies must be somewhere.”
Perry’s jaws came heavily together. The remark, supposedly innocent enough, was not lost on Perry, the implication being that the 105th would be a Regiment in existence long enough to build up their own history and traditions. Such was anathema in the eyes of the General, but Lacey was twisting the knife. There was no question of Perry taking the letters, they were not addressed to him, but he was not allowed to dwell on it, for the two now stood and Lacey brought the letters back to his side of the desk. He then stood and saluted, very form
ally. Perry returned with an even briefer nod than previously and the merest irritated twitch of his left hand. Formalities now observed, more in their absence than in their observance, Lacey and O’Hare turned and left.
***
Now lodged in the comfort of an Inn in town, Carravoy and D’Villiers were catching up with the daily newspapers, not so much reading, as rapidly turning the pages to find the article, or perhaps articles, that most involved themselves, these being any that covered Moore’s campaign. Several, over the days since they had returned, had carried articles on the army’s record in Spain and their state of the army when they landed. It was Carravoy who had The Times, amongst others, and was plainly the most eager to find criticism of their now dead Commander. His remaining as a Captain still rankled and added to the bile within him. He shuffled through each newssheet where he had found an article, and picked up that which most chimed with his own opinions.
“At last it seems some sense and judgment is emerging as a lesson from that shambles we’ve just escaped from. Here, listen. “Moore must be criticised for placing such over reliance on Spanish allies whose record against the French was utterly abysmal. Why did he think that they would give priority to his needs, when they were repeatedly failing so badly to manage any level of strategical support for their own forces?”
He crushed the paper together and slammed it down on the table.
“There! Finally! An informed and proper judgment. Justly condemned!”
D’Villiers did not respond for some moments, he was reading an article of his own.
“Well, that may be so, but it does seem wrong to speak so ill of the dead, who is not here to defend himself and I’ve got one here that speaks of the failures of the Commissariat and I think they have a point. Had we been fed sufficiently from, let’s say Astorga to Lugo, on the retreat, then we’d have come through well enough.”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 58
