That said Templemere’s eyes and mouth conveyed pure malevolence; accompanied by a half smile that carried pure derision. Carr had had enough.
“That’s as may be, but I can tell you that Johnny looks upon it somewhat differently to what’s arrived in the newsheets.”
He drew breath, making a slight pause.
“However, that’s as may be. Right now, I must be away. I have two Ensigns to find.”
He nodded in their direction and continued his descent.
“My best to you, gentlemen.”
He did not look back, even when he heard Templemere’s voice for the final time.
“I hear you have designs on a local girl, Carr. Well, good luck with that!”
Carr merely lifted his right hand into the air and continued on, failing to look back. The heavy sarcasm in Templemere’s voice meant that he was wishing him anything other than good luck, but the likes of him would say anything to create strife and anxiety.
The Ensigns were not found, in fact Carr did not look for them, but returned straight to the inn and there he indulged in a glass of spirits to perhaps raise his own. The meeting with the two had left him in low mood. In Tavender he was disappointed, he felt that he was owed a debt of honour from him, enough for good regard at least, for twice he had helped him out of a situation almost irretrievable. On top was the re-acquaintance with Templemere, which could be nothing other than distasteful; stomach churning, even. However, he comforted himself with the logic that meeting Templemere could always happen, he was not dead and was part of the local social round. He then further lifted his mood at the thought of Templemere being faced with some crack French cavalry, Polish lancers or Cuirassiers, or somesuch. That made him smile, which made O’Hare think that Carr was in a good mood.
“Henry! Enjoying your freedom, I see. Have another, on me.”
He waved at the barman, who brought them a bottle.
“We’ve another appointment with the Prince, tomorrow. And this time, we are assured, the Prince will keep it. It’s in the morning and he wants back to London in the afternoon. Perhaps the waters don’t agree with him, or he’s got an appointment with his latest interest, the Beefsteak Club!”
Carr picked up the bottle and poured two more.
“On that subject, the waters I mean, I can only say that he has a very good point!”
***
One would have to go a long way to better the scene of Bath Abbey. There are superior religious buildings; higher, longer, more ornate, perhaps better designed, but for the intimacy of contact, of hand-in-hand sharing in the day to day business of the good inhabitants, Bath Abbey could not be bettered. For here the solid citizens of the noble city could walk unhindered within feet of its walls and its small, but personal, portico. Thus, their Abbey was part of the daily routine of many, it being right in the city centre and surrounded, almost to its very walls, with the buildings that gave character and shelter to the inhabitants of the premier city, excepting London, of Georgian England.
Thus it stood waiting and at 09.59 am, in thick drizzle, five Colour Parties formed up at the high end of Union Street, with a lone drummer before. The five were from the main British combatants of the Moore’s army at Corunna, these being those who defended the ridge; the 4th, the 42nd, the 59th, the 81st and, finally, as the least senior, 105th. The Guards would receive theirs in London. As the town clocks all around struck 10.00, the drummer beat a roll, then, with single taps, he set the pace for the march down to the Abbey. The beating drum cleared the way as much as the four Parish Constables in the lead, but the rain depressed any uplift of the spirits that could have been aroused at the sight of five sets of Regimental Colours parading through the streets, these adding the only cheer to the drab scene. Most men removed their hats and almost all stood still in respect, but there was no cheering, no huzzas, the whole country remained in sombre mood. There was enough wind and also enough in the motion of the march to draw out The Colours to show the battle damage in each, but the impact of its significance on the watchers was impossible to gauge. The rainwater dripped down the facades of the yellow stone buildings on either side, over the pavement and into the gutters. The sound added a sad backdrop to the marching feet and the lone beating drum. Behind the 105th, the daily business of Bath closed behind them, as it would for the passing of a plain brewers dray.
Lacey was at the front of their party, sword drawn, followed on either side, but slightly behind, came O’Hare and Carr, followed by The Colour Party itself; Deakin, Rushby, Neape and Bennet. They traversed the ancient crossroads of Westgate and Cheap Street, to soon turn left into the Abbey Square, and march on towards the imposing, if not towering, West Front. At the entrance, small in proportion to the gracious stonework around, the drummer stood to one side and the five parties broke up, to enter as they may. Then to reform in the aisle, in a queue, for this was to be done quickly and efficiently, more as though they were new recruits being issued with new muskets at a quartermaster’s store, instead of being issued with the very symbols of their existence.
The Prince was late, but not too late, so they were not stood waiting for more than ten minutes. During that time, Carr, stood closest to the pews on his right hand side, was soon aware of the three young ladies from the previous day, all stood simpering and giggling some way up from them. He turned to look at the Colour Party, stood just behind him. Whilst the faces of Deakin and Bennet would not have been out of place as gargoyles on the outside walls, those of Rushby and Neape, if only in their eyes and barely with their mouths, returned the amusement. Sparse and brief the occasion may be, but its significance was not lost on Carr, especially now that they were stood waiting in the nave of so significant and emotional a building. He glowered at both.
“Watch your front!”
The levity transformed into stern solemnity and Carr noticed the girl’s expression also become subdued, then he saw that the 4th were now marching back out, along the North side aisle. The 105th marched up one place and waited some more. Carr, without moving his head studied the superb stained glass above the altar that seemed to create a sunshine of its own, but then they were moving forward again. This was to be quickly done. The kilted 42nd were receiving their Colour and then, after what seemed but minutes they were stood before the Prince. At this point Carr noticed three women who would not have been out of place alongside Neape’s tittering relations, all three viewing the performance of their Prince with great amusement, but then Carr noticed something that did much to change his view of the whole affair. The Prince was wearing the uniform of the Colonel-in-Chief of the 105th, the lurid green facings stark and clear and Carr felt his emotion rising as Lacey, unlike the previous four Colonels, was motioned forward. Carr was close enough to hear.
“Morning Colonel.”
“Morning Sir.”
“Lacey, isn’t it?”
“Yes Sir.”
The Prince leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Sorry about this, Lacey. Would have much preferred to do the thing with full show back on Horse Guards, full fig, as it were, but politics! Politics, you see. Love to have a chat, as we did last time, I hear you did well, but, well, new circumstances, political ones. Hope you understand?”
“I do Sir. We are but plain soldiers.”
The Prince’s face lit up, almost matching the window behind him.
“That’s it! Plain soldiers! We are! We do our duty, what! Nothing more.”
“Yes sir. There is nothing more!”
The Prince’s face showed full agreement, even emotion, and he said no more, other than to nod his head, then turn to take the bright green Regimental Colour while Lacey stepped aside. This was duly handed to Neape and then Rushby stepped up. The Prince recognised him.
“Ensign! How’s your wound? What you picked up in Italy?”
Rushby spoke through a mouth restricted by a tight shako strap, but it was intelligible.
“All healed now Sir. Thank you.”
&nb
sp; The Prince stepped back and the Colour Party reformed. Salutes were exchanged and Lacey led his men in a right wheel. Outside was a small gathering, each of the other Colour Parties, stood within their own group of followers, although all were ‘followers’ of a higher social status than the common, soldier’s usage of that term. Rushby and Neape were soon ensconced with the girls, but it was not long before Lacey had had enough. He shook the hand of each of his fellow Colonels, each wishing the other well, then he looked for Carr and found him, easily enough, standing statuesque and alone.
“Get The Colours cased and let’s get home!”
On the evening of the following day, their coach rolled back through their barrack gate. Lacey took himself straight to his office, followed by Neape and Rushby who placed their respective Colour into the iron holders behind Lacey’s chair. They saluted their charges, now safe in their proper stations, then left.
***
Nathaniel Drake stood in thoughtful pose, mostly amused, yet also critical. He was watching their servant, Corporal Edward Morrison, give a final brushing to Carr’s uniform, paying particular attention to the sides and shoulders. Morrison was just as much diverted and taken with the occasion as was Drake and could not resist a comment.
“This is it, then, Sir!”
Carr frowned in Morrison’s direction and Drake looked critically at Carr, but for the final time, him being the main character, now polished, burnished and twice shaved. The only blemish, apart from the scars, was Carr’s eye, now an odd shade of yellow. Drake then went to the door of their room and opened it, for Carr to leave and then lead the pair down the narrow stairs and into the street. For the next hundred yards or so, Carr spent most of the time trying to ease, with his chin, the tight strap of his lustrous shako, its brass frontplate gleaming like gold and matching all other hardware. He felt in a worse state of nervousness than he would be were he leading his men against a French bastion, but Drake was chattering on, Carr hearing no more than every third word.
“I’ve asked Cecily to bring her to Lady Constance’s and then we two will slope off, somehow, leaving you alone. We’ve set a date, by the way, Cecily and I. Very provisional, but, well, we live in hope.”
Carr was in too much of a nervous state of mind to make any kind of point that his own Brevetcy was far from certain and could totally scotch Drake’s plans, but he could only glace sideways at him.
“Congratulations.”
Drake looked at him.
“Thanks. You’re to be Best Man, of course!”
That did nothing to alleviate Carr’s deep state of anxiety, in fact it added another layer, but at least it took his mind off what was to come, albeit very temporarily.
They marched and wheeled through the wide streets of the more salubrious and affluent end of Taunton, until faced with the imposing façade of the residence of Lady Constance Fynings. The last time Carr had walked up the path had been to sing in the good Lady’s choir, but it was at this very place, during the first rehearsal, that he had first met Jane. The memories came back immediately on seeing the imposing limestone frontage and also the heavy, medieval door that was thoroughly in keeping with the uncommonly large blocks of stone forming the surrounding arch. Drake raised the huge doorknocker to let it thunderously fall and, as Carr remembered, it was the same maid of still indeterminate age who opened the door. As usual Drake took charge, as engaging as ever, even with servants.
“Hello Maud, good to see you. Is Cecily here? And Jane Perry?”
Maud curtsied.
“Yes, Sir. Yes to both. They’re in the day room.”
Drake stood back and pushed Carr through, fearing that he might run off. With Carr in the hall, Drake enquired further of Maud, pointing at the same time down a dark corridor, dark from dark varnish on dark wood, although the light shone through a window at the far end.
“That’s down here, isn’t it. At the end, overlooking the garden?”
Maud nodded.
“Yes, Sir. I’ll go down and announce you. Her Ladyship is there, also.”
Drake held out his arm across her path.
“No! No need, Maud. We can announce ourselves, can’t we Henry?”
Carr twisted his head to show a face with no expression; neither did he make any gesture. He remained stock-still. Drake removed his own shako and gave it to Maud, but it was a good three seconds before Carr could bring himself to concentrate and remove his own to pass across to Maud. Drake then led on, to knock at the final door and open it. He entered, followed by Carr, in line astern, and almost hidden by Drake, who was immediately proceeding with bountiful bonhomie towards the seated Lady Constance, she sitting in a large single armchair, opposite Jane and Cecily, who occupied a small settee.
“Lady Constance. How do you do? We trust we find you well, you certainly look in the best of health!”
Lady Constance was well used to Nathaniel Drake’s flummery and countered with a disapproving look, bar her eyes, which showed that she was more than a little charmed by the warmth and exuberance of his, as usual, theatrical arrival She had a deep affection for the always cheerful and egregious Nathaniel Drake, but her voice was flat and knowing, as though she had long fathomed the charmer that was this high spirited young man.
“Nathaniel! Thank you, I am well.”
She tilted her head sideways to acknowledge Carr, although she could see him well enough.
“Captain Carr. You are welcome.”
However, regarding Carr, her eyes showed both surprise and concern. Drake looked thin and worn, but Carr was positively gaunt and the odd shade around his left eye did nothing to improve matters. However, he was stood tall and straight and that must be to the good. She extended her hand to him and he strode forward and bent over it.
“Lady Constance. It is very kind of you to remember me, from so long ago.”
Lady Constance laughed.
“I remember you very well, Captain. A rather effective bass baritone, as I recall.”
Carr laughed. From somewhere he was gaining control of himself.
“Again, you are too kind. I cannot recall achieving much more than a lower end rumble.”
The two girls laughed, which set Carr further at his ease, but it was Cecily who spoke.
“You were better than that!”
She looked at Drake, very affectionately.
“Better than one certain party, who did, at least, manage to sing the right notes, but not always as dictated by any form of rhythm!”
Drake feigned astonishment.
“Not so! I was the very sheet anchor of the bottom registers! As I recall it was left to me, many a time, to carry the tune along.”
Cecily stared back, plainly not convinced, but Drake was by now pulling up a chair, with Carr just behind carrying another. At that point, Lady Constance’s motherly instincts surfaced at the sight of the pair, both plainly having played a part in the awful campaign that she had just lately read about.
“You are to stay to dinner! I insist! We are having roast mutton.”
Drake turned to Carr, to ask a question to which he well knew the answer, but to ask it outright would add to the happy atmosphere now building.
“Can we do that? We’re not on guard or anything?”
Carr looked at him, then looked away and swallowed. Now sat there, in the circle, his nerves had returned. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, to the first, no, to the second.”
He bowed towards Lady Constance.
“You are most kind, Lady Constance. It will be a pleasure.”
At that moment the door swung open and in came Maud with a huge tray that was just about within the span of her arms. Lady Constance looked up.
“Ah, tea! Nathaniel, bring over the table, please.”
Drake stood and dragged a low long table into the gathering, to enable Maud to lower the tray perfectly into the centre of the five seated around. Lady Constance stood up and arranged the cups and saucers, the fine china causing a superior
tinkling that spoke of the highest quality. As she poured the tea, she looked at Carr.
“Captain Carr, could you please circulate with this plate of sandwiches?”
She passed him a large plate of carefully prepared, crusts cut off, white bread sandwiches, which seemed to contain some kind of paste filling. Carr took the plate and looked up, first towards Cecily and Jane, who were staring at him, wide eyed and lovely, but more important, bathing him in two deeply affectionate smiles. Thus encouraged, he rose with the large plate and collected two small ones, which he handed to both girls. He gave one to Cecily, quickly, then looked at Jane and the look he received back told him all he needed to know, a look that held him fixed in place for some seconds, this by Cecily’s indulgence, for she still holding an empty plate. However, noticing Lady Constance staring over at events that were not happening, she decided to finally interrupt.
“Henry! I would like some of those sandwiches.”
Her words cut deep into Carr’s thorough drowning in Jane’s brown eyes and he re-surfaced with some confusion, nearly tipping off the sandwiches with the speed that he thrust them in Cecily’s direction. She delicately selected two, for Carr to then offer the plate to Jane, which gave more opportunity for deep eye-to-eye gazing, but this time much shorter. He returned to his seat to select his own of the sandwiches, then to notice a fine china cup placed closest to him on the table. Polite conversation then ensued in which Carr played little part, other than answering direct questions. He was not often given to deep philosophising, but the thought came uppermost into his mind and would not depart, regarding the deep contrast of where he was now, in a refined drawing room, drinking expensive tea from a wafer thin teacup and eating delicate food from a spotless fine china plate, to where he had been but days ago, the seemingly endless starvation and being barely able to place one foot before another. His sojourn was interrupted by another question from Lady Constance.
“Captain Carr! What are your hopes that your Brevetcy will be confirmed?”
Carr released all the breath from within him and placed his cup and plate on the table. He looked down at his boots before answering, his hands together, outstretched over his crossed legs.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 60
