He put down the paper.
“I think that’s true.”
Carravoy’s eyebrows came together darkening his brow and his mouth became a thin line, but D’Villiers continued.
“You cannot argue against Moore having no choice but to retreat. He’d have lost the whole army otherwise, but had we been better supplied we’d have come out of it looking a whole lot better than the collection of scarecrows they are describing us as.”
He waved another article he had read at Carravoy.
“This is a case for my point. In one of the first papers issued after we came back, they talk of the returning army being nothing more than “lice ridden scarecrows”. Nothing about our fighting record. That’s a bit thick! The Reserve Division beat the French back at every turn and then we threw back their whole army, come the end. What do they think an army looks like, after a battle and two weeks of retreat with nothing to eat?”
He was building up a level of heat himself.
“They should look to who was running the Commissariat before they start with their criticism of Moore and his men. Them being us!”
Carravoy ground his teeth before speaking.
“Moore got it wrong. That’s the up and down of it. And what about the loss of the Dispatch and the Smallbridge, both wrecked with a loss of nearly 300 men!”
D’Villiers had raised his paper to read on further, but then lowered it. That also was ‘a bit thick’.
“Moore can’t be held responsible for shipwreck! After he was dead! No-one’s saying he did not get stuff wrong. He got a lot wrong, but so did many others, some back here at Horse Guards. That’s the full up and down of it!”
D’Villiers’ opinions would not have been out of place in a carriage which at that moment passing the ruins at Glastonbury, containing The Colour Party, plus the three Senior Officers. O’Hare was doing his best to appease Barnaby Rushby who would have strongly agreed with D’Villiers.
“Now don’t take it all so personal! Much as I dislike it myself, the army is never far from politics and one General or another is either a favourite of the Whigs or a favourite of the Tories. Moore was a ‘child of the Whigs’, as some put it. What I don’t like is him being kicked about. His friends, if that’s the correct word, using it all to hit our present Tory Government for incompetence, whilst the Tories blame Moore for the same.”
He paused and was pleased that Rushby’s face had become more thoughtful.
“But that’s the game we’re in, and we have to face up to it or give it all up.”
He paused again, to assemble his final thoughts. No-one spoke; they knew that there was more to come.
“We got kicked out! That’s a defeat and that sets off the politics. One thing I know. Moore drew off a whole French army that could have gone marching on into Portugal and taken over the whole shebang! Because of that, we’re still there, holding Lisbon and that gives us a fighting chance. He should be given credit for that and, although no-one else seems to be doing that, then I certainly will.”
The coach lurched to a stop outside the coaching inn, The George and Pilgrim, but before they got out, O’Hare had one more thing to say.
“So! This night there’s a drink on me, and the toast is to John Moore and the other good lads we left behind in Spain.”
The other four Officers laughed, there could be no more argument against a sentiment such as that, bar one comment from Lacey.
“I’ll agree to anything you say, if it puts a drink in my hand!”
More laughter, then O’Hare alighted first, followed by Ensigns Rushby and Neape, then Brevet Major Carr and finally Lacey himself. Colour Sergeants Bennet and Deakin climbed down from the roof, carrying their own baggage, which included The Colours. They then caught the baggage of their Officers, thrown down to them.
That evening, whilst Deakin and Bennet kept their own company in a back room, the five sat to enjoy a good meal in a private room on the first floor. Initially, the good food cheered them all and the wine also sparked up all spirits, but it was not long before the subconscious depression that lay upon them all, manifested itself again. It began with Neape, the youngest and the least experienced. This was his first taste of ‘post campaign’ and, despite O’Hare’s wise words earlier, resentment had built within him, to be finally released as the wine loosened his tongue.
“Are all homecomings like this? I mean, so, so, controversial!”
The other four looked at him quizzically, saying nothing, which prompted him to say more.
“Well, I mean, it’s all been about what went wrong! We bested the French three times in set piece. Has all that been forgotten?”
This time it was Lacey who sat back and formed an answer.
“We hold the line!”
He paused whilst all turned to him, more than slightly puzzled.
“And that’s what we did. Anyone who thinks Napoleon will be beat in one campaign is a fool. My money’s on eight years, perhaps ten. He’s beating all that Europe can send against him, bar us, and what were we, but a small event at the far end of the continent? Wars are attrition, slowly he will be worn down. The whole of Europe is against him, so six years if he makes a mistake, eight if he doesn’t. For me, we did the best in Spain that could be expected, and the French now know that they have a foe at least their equal, probably better. We held the line, by which I mean that we’re still in the fight. We weren’t all captured, as we could have been. Back here, home, people like big, decisive victories, the sort that ends wars. Well, this is just the beginning; the grind. People are disappointed if that is not what is served up. It confirms the coming of years more of war. We know what we’ve done. The rest of the country may not acknowledge it as any form of progress, but we know that it is, and, as O’Hare here says, as soon as the politicians get involved, then it all goes to Hell in a handcart! It was their work that left us kicking our heels in Lisbon after Vimeiro.”
He swallowed from his drink, whilst the others remained silent, but he had almost finished.
“So! You’re still here, we’re still here, and we’re going back, this time under Wellesley. So there, we’ve held the line, we’re still in it! And we’re getting new Colours to prove it!”
All around, his companions nodded sagely, but the mood was not lifted and the meal ended quietly. However, this was in stark contrast to that pertaining in the back room, where Deakin lifted another quart of beer to Bennet.
“Here’s to your legs, here’s to your arms, here’s to your head. They’re all still where we’d wish for ’em to be!”
The two tankards clashed together and both drank deeply.
The following day, modestly clear for early February, saw the much ladened coach climbing the Mendips, affording a good view back of the Somerset Levels and so all Officers took the opportunity to look back at the curious feature of The Tor. Deakin and Bennet, although it was early morning, dozed on the back seat of the roof, somewhat worse for wear from the night before. Both were also influenced by the swaying coach and the sound of the wheels on the good turnpike road, lulling them back to slumber, but mostly they slept because there was nothing else to do. Thus, for them, the journey was broken into periods asleep and periods awake and soon enough, at least as they experienced it, the spires and spectacle of Bath came into view at the top of the final slope off the Mendips. The coach rolled into the courtyard of a very substantial coaching inn and all alighted, but Lacey went immediately to Deakin and Bennet.
“Get settled in. We could be here for some days.”
The reason he did not give, this being that The Prince of Wales was notorious for failing to appear at appointed occasions, often being days late, being far more inclined to indulge his latest “fad”, whatever that was, at that moment in time, but Lacey had no way of knowing the extent of any likely delay. So settle in they did, although the ceremony was scheduled for the very next day. O’Hare gave the odds as ‘five to four against” and he was right. The next day at 11.00 am, all we
re about to leave the inn by the front door, when a messenger arrived to say, ‘postponed for the following day, the Prince is indisposed’. As they climbed the stairs back to their room, Lacey gave his verdict.
“Mrs Fitzherbert has a headache, we presume!”
O’Hare, perhaps more worldly than even Lacey, volunteered another.
“Or perhaps not!”
Lacey looked at O’Hare, both amused and shocked at the inference, but the day was now their own. O’Hare took Deakin and Bennet off to the nearby racecourse where there was a meeting, Lacey wandered relaxed, taking in the sights, whilst Carr, Rushby and Neape decided on the Pumproom. Having decided on the premier social spot in the city, each ensured that the other was thoroughly spruced before leaving the inn and they wandered down the main street to turn into the square with the Abbey set before them and the Pump Rooms on their right. Once inside the interior with its pastel pink and cream décor, colours influenced by the Prince himself, so most believed, Carr took the pair to the fountain for the “waters” and prepared a cup for each of the Ensigns and one for himself.
“Now you’ve got to drink this, although it tastes like nothing on earth. The received wisdom is, that it’s very good for you, so you must drink it all. Every drop!”
He handed out the cups and both drank. The expression on their faces matched his own feelings, but they had only sipped, which Carr judged to be wholly insufficient.
“All of it! There are many who drink at least one cup a day and swear that it lengthens their lives! Or improves it, in some fashion”.
He drank from his own, the water tepid and earthy, a taste straight from the soil, much less than pleasant.
“Mind you, there’s plenty more that think the sheer misery of drinking this stuff knocks off years!”
The two Ensigns laughed, then drank to the bottom and Rushby looked into his cup.
“We drank worse on the retreat, Sir, and would have welcomed anything this warm! Especially at Corunna, when everything we drank came from that vile stream.”
On hearing the word ‘Corunna’, several well-dressed gentlemen turned to look at them, but the look of condemnation that soured their faces told all. Carr returned the look with a weary expression of his own, then gathered the cups.
“Come on! There’s a good coffee room upstairs nextdoor.”
However, they did not get very far than to exit one door, then enter another. At the bottom of the stairs mentioned they saw three young ladies coming down and it was plain to Carr that they recognised one of his Ensigns. It was soon evident that this was not Rushby, as two spoke in unison, the other merely beamed.
“Trenton!”
As they were evidently about to be joined by young ladies they retreated back down the stairs and there Neape made the introductions.
“Major Carr and Ensign Barnaby Rushby, may I introduce my cousins Natalie and Abigail and their friend Josephine Ambleside-Smith, Josie to us all?”
Carr came to the attention and saluted, which Rushby, very unsure of what to do next, gratefully copied, whilst Carr spoke his greetings.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies. I trust I find you well?”
All three girls curtsied and smiled, their eyes soon regarding the floor, but one, the not-a-cousin, did manage the correct reply.
“We are quite well, Major. Thank you for your concern.”
Carr grinned, suddenly in quite buoyant mood, significantly cheered by the happy scene of the two Ensigns, especially Rushby, and the three girls, chatting happily, so he stood politely by as they questioned Neape and Rushby. However, it soon became plain that both these were wholly at the centre of their attentions and that he was very much at the periphery. Rushby they plainly found very interesting, so Carr smiled to himself and then made his excuses to ascend the stairs once more. At the top he looked for a table that was free, but none were. However, a cup of hot coffee, in fact more than one, thoroughly appealed and so he took himself to the serving bar, where he could stand and obtain his desires, even if he could not sit. He made his way off to the side, not wishing to attempt a passage through the crowded tables, with seats and tables crowded with gentlewomen, gentlemen, top hats perched on canes, bonnets and trailing dresses. He found a space at the damp and stained mahogany of the bar and placed his order, which quickly came. He was soon halfway through the large cup’s dark contents and feeling very much at peace, so he turned from gazing out of the window to look across the crowd of patrons. It took a while for the thought to hit him that this was the first time that he had been alone since he could not remember, with no-one in need of either his help or decisions. He smiled at the luxurious notion, that he was a free agent; at least for a few minutes, or perhaps even hours, Neape and Rushby were plainly in safe hands. He ordered another cup and drank it indulgently, perhaps with too much sugar, but he also indulged equally in the sound of the happy chatter that came from all around him. With the second cup finished he placed two sixpences on the bar and levered himself away from it, to follow his path of earlier, back to the head of the stairs.
He was absentmindedly descending, still in faraway mode and not particularly looking where he was going, when he heard his name.
“Carr!”
He looked to his right to see Lucius Tavender now ascending, but he had stopped just below Carr’s own level. Carr looked over but did not speak, for alongside Tavender was a face he’d hoped never to see again, but Tavender was making the introductions.
“Captain Carr, have you met Lord Frederick Templemere?”
Carr made no reply. He did know Templemere, he was a dark figure from Carr’s past, and relations were anything but good. They had fought a duel which Carr had finished with an illegal blow and the last words that Carr had spoken to Templemere were a threat to kill him at the end of a lone fight in a wood! Carr held his peace and allowed Templemere to speak first, which he did.
“Yes. The Captain is known to me.”
He looked Carr full in the face.
“Carr!”
Carr nodded a reply.
“My Lord.”
Tavender may have detected the chill between the two, but he did not show it.
“How are you, Carr? Why are you here?”
“I am well, thank you.”
Carr thought it best to use no names, but continued as pleasantly as he felt able. It was always best to be circumspect with the likes of Lucius Tavender, so he replied neutrally.
“Summons from the Prince! Him whose name we carry, but how are you? Did you get back well enough? You weren’t involved in either of those two sinkings, were you?”
Tavender’s face remained cold. Was he resentful of the help he received from Carr back in the Peninsula, or was this the normal him? Or was it perhaps that Carr had practically ignored the second question. Carr smiled slightly, awaiting a response, which came from Tavender.
“No, I was not. In fact we got out early. We saw the smoke as we sailed; of your battle.”
Carr waited for an enquiry on that subject, but none came, so he replied, he hoped civilly.
“Well, I’m pleased you got away, even though we could have done with your help. Your presence would have been welcome, but, having said that, it was a rearguard action and we both had our orders. It fell to us to hold back the French. Someone had to. The fortunes of war!”
Again no reaction in their faces that could be called warmth, but at least Tavender was speaking, repeating his earlier question.
“So, why are you here?”
“I’m here for a ceremony. We are here to receive new Colours, hopefully soon, hopefully tomorrow, from the Prince of Wales.”
Tavender at last showed some genuine reaction.
“We? New Colours?”
Carr nodded.
“Yes. Three new battle honours for us, the 105th.”
Carr kept it brief, he wanted this to end, but now Templemere spoke up, his voice still with the bullying, sarcastic edge that Carr remembered.
“Somewhat of a high level job, for such as a Captain? I’d say.”
Carr smiled indulgently.
“I’m now a Major. Brevet after Corunna; only Brevet, but needed here to make the numbers up to the proper form.”
Tavender’s eyes just flickered, that was a surprise, but plainly he wanted nothing more of that topic, because no ‘congratulations’ were forthcoming. He changed the subject.
“Are you going back?”
Carr nodded. He knew it meant the Peninsula.
“So rumour has it.”
At last Tavender smiled.
“So are we.”
Carr looked puzzled. The word “we” could mean anything, but he was soon enlightened.
“We! Myself and Lord Fred here. He’s purchased a Commission in my Regiment. 20th Light Dragoons. A Captaincy. Like myself.”
Carr nodded but did not smile. The thought of Templemere leading men on a battlefield brought only horror, but politeness prevailed.
“The Regiment you charged with at Vimeiro! Well, good, I wish you both well.”
He managed another smile, but Tavender retained his cold look, it bordering on dislike.
“But we won’t be doing much charging. We’re to join General Bentinck’s Staff. He’s preparing a Brigade to join Wellesley.”
Despite the look, Carr felt the words to be engaging enough and replied in similar vein.
“Bentinck! Well good, you’ve landed on your feet there! We were part of his Brigade for some of the retreat and for Corunna itself.”
The question immediately entered Carr’s head regarding how they had obtained so soft a posting as that; influence somewhere, no doubt, but Templemere now joined in, his voice full of sarcastic disdain.
“We?”
Carr looked full at him, annoyed at the possibility of the slightest slur. His head lifted and his shoulders drew back.
“Yes we! The 105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment!”
He took a pause to draw breath.
“Maida, Rolica, Vimeiro and Corunna.”
Templemere voice remained unchanged.
“Corunna! You’ll get few plaudits for that!”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 59
