Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “Captain Carr, Sir Henry.”

  Secretary to the Commander in Chief, General Sir Henry Livermore, raised not his face, just his eyes to observe Carr march forward, halt, and come to attention. At this point he raised his head and sat back, elbows on the arms of his huge dark leather chair, fingertips of both hands poised in opposition. He studied Carr for what seemed to Carr to be an eternity, but was only a count of five for Sir Henry. Carr maintained a steady gaze over Sir Henry’s left shoulder, a choice that made unavoidable his realising that most of Sir Henry’s left ear was missing and there was a noticeable concave furrow along the side of his head, leading directly to the missing section of earlobe. Sir Henry took stock of what was before him, noticing the cut and age of the tunic and the half healed wound bisecting an eyebrow, but all was soldier enough for him to find no fault with this aspect of this tall ex-Captain.

  “Rum business this, Carr!” This spoken in a voice that sounded like rocks being washed around on a beach, spoken whilst still retaining his balanced position in the armchair and also adopting an expression that could only be described as disapproving.

  “Sir?”

  “Your papers here say that you resigned from the King’s Royals two weeks ago. Now you present yourself here, presumably with the ambition to rejoin His Majesty’s Forces.”

  “Yes, Sir. I need to know if I can regain a Commission and then approach an Army Agent. I have some money and I am hoping to be able to purchase a posting somewhere. I expect a reduction in rank to Lieutenant.”

  “Not in the King’s Royals, eh?”

  “No, Sir. It has been made plain to me that I am not welcome there.”

  Livermore let the silence hang whilst studying Carr some more.

  “So, here you are, not welcome in your old Regiment, and wishing for a Commission, two weeks after resigning one. Explain.”

  “I resigned to enable me to settle a matter of honour, Sir. A duel.”

  “And you’re not dead!”

  “No, Sir.”

  The faintest of smiles passed across the face of them both. Carr relaxed, a little. Sir Henry continued.

  “Who with? What about? You’d better sit down.”

  “Thank you Sir.”

  Carr came around to the front one of the two chairs before the desk and sat, but he did not feel confident enough to place his shako on the edge of the desk before him. He retained it on his right knee, his left hand holding his sabre erect. Sir Henry now leant forward, elbows placed on the desk, evidently curious. Carr could have replied “a personal matter of honour” but saw little point. He felt his best course to be open and frank.

  “Lord Frederick Templemere, Sir. He accused me of cheating at backgammon. He also threw a glass of brandy over me. Sir.”

  “Templemere! I’ve heard. I’ve heard he’ll be dining on soup and nothing else for the next month. Broken jaw, or somesuch. Ha! Funny wound to come out of a duel with, though. What happened?”

  Sir Henry sat back again, evidently cheered up, plainly now in good humour. Carr remained on guard. An inferior reporting to his superior. He continued to look over his superior’s shoulder, but had enough sense to no longer use the left, which could seem as staring. Now he chose the right.

  “I punched him with the bellguard of my sabre, Sir.”

  “Punched him with the bellguard. Be damned! He he! In a duel! All against the rules that, Carr. Tut tut. I’m not surprised in the least that you are no longer welcome in polite society”.

  “No, Sir. But as I said at the time, I came for a fight, not for a dance.”

  Sir Henry gave vent to a snigger, his large wounded head jerking back in unison with his right fist thumping the chair arm. He sat forward, conspiratorially.

  “Well Carr, here’s how it is. Boney’s still just the other side of The Channel with 250,000 men, all veterans. What Nelson did at Trafalgar, God rest him for it, means we still hold the waters between, but he’s still there. England needs every man, even those who can’t fight a duel in the right way, which means that you may be in luck. This is the best that I can do. The 9th have been shipwrecked on their way back from Ireland. On the French coast. They’ve lost a lot of men, but some survivors, about 200, I believe, managed to get to Dorset in the ships boats. What’s left of the 9th want them back, but the powers think otherwise. Along with Militia and other odds and sods, they have been collected into a Detachment Battalion at Taunton, not too far from here. It could get up to 700 men, perhaps more, the Militia are strong down there. They need Commissioned Officers of experience, and you can keep your rank of Captain. Also it won’t cost you a penny, purchase into a collection of Detachments is unheard of. It’s what’s available, and I don’t see how you’ll do better. Militia Officers are being called in, and using their money to buy their postings, in the more, er, well known Regiments. But you’ll be back in the Army, and still a Captain.”

  “I’ll take it, Sir. And thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me too soon, boy. Detachmant Battalions are usually the most God-awful rabble, but we need every man, in some sort of order. Mark my words, sooner or later, somewhere, you’ll be muzzle to muzzle with Napoleon’s forces. Have you ever seen a French column?”

  “Yes, Sir. A small one at Castlebar. It went right through our line.”

  “So have I, only at Marengo. That battle was near as damnit won, when a whole collection of French columns, Division strength, mind, went through the Austrians like they weren’t there! Boney’s men can fight. When you come up against them, it won’t be easy. With Boney leading them, they haven’t lost a battle!”

  “No, Sir. But I am ready to do my duty.”

  Livermore looked at him hard, examining his face. The mouth was steady, the eyes fixed and unblinking.

  “Right, I’ll tell Wilson out there to create your papers and a letter of introduction to Colonel William Lacey. He’s in command. They are called the……..”

  There came the opening of drawers and the rustling of papers. At last the right one was found.

  “……….5th Detachments, the collective noun for odds and sods and sweepings, Colonel Lacey commanding, good man that he is. Come around at this time tomorrow and collect your orders. Good luck, Carr.”

  With that, Sir Henry rose out of his chair and proffered his right hand. Carr, recognising the traditional soldier’s farewell, both the words and the gesture conveying respect, rose from his chair, shook the hand gratefully, came to the attention, saluted, did a smart about turn, and marched out. Only then did he permit himself a smile.

  oOo

  Now, in thus varied a manner, the body of men that would come to be known as Lacey’s Battalion, the 5th Detachments, converged to their point of muster. Some came as bound prisoners, some as soldiers obeying their orders, some as officers obeying the King’s Commission. And some came as volunteers, as a cheerful column marching their way West to Taunton. This included Joe Pike. He had found his way to Chard, and there a Recruiting Sergeant had found him, a perfect recruit, strong and lithe, taking a drink outside the local Coaching Inn. “Take a drink with me”, was the cheerful beginning, “I’ve stories to tell ‘ee,” but at the bottom of the dull pewter tankard was the shiny shilling. Joe was recruited, but he felt neither anger nor sadness. The Army seemed as good a course for his life to take as any; hunger, no work and nights spent in ditches and barns had taken their toll on his spirit. He wrote a letter to his family and lodged it with the Post House, then went back to the Inn. The Army was paying for his first square meal for days.

  oOo

  Chapter Two

  Arrival

  Taunton Barracks had been built in the required style; that required by an age during which social rebellion from their own population was as much a fear for any Government as any foreign invasion. With this in mind, it had been designed as much to repel any form of civil unrest, as to keep in the common soldiery. It sat squat on it’s hill, its profile only broken by a high centre arch, such as could cont
ain the necessary forbidding gates. The new “prisoner” recruits, these recruited by a Judge rather than the blandishments of any Recruiting Sergeant, saw the pale, brick orange, loopholed walls from a considerable distance as they crossed the last flat plain of the River Tone. The walls were highlighted enough by the weak early November afternoon sunlight, dissipated by the unseasonably high cloud.

  Feelings were mixed throughout the equally mixed members of the column. For Percival Sedgwicke it meant the welcome end of the most physically gruelling requirement of his life, but also it meant the beginning of his time as an anonymous soldier. Once a social notary, now he was merely a cipher on a Regimental Muster Roll. Almost impossible for him to contemplate, he could now be ordered and bludgeoned into subservience to become no more and no less than an effective “ranker”, able to load and fire a musket, and to survive or fall in any future bloody conflict. For John Davey, it meant a very new life, separated from the freedoms of a country village, he was now to be locked into the restrictive regime of a soldier’s life. For Tiley it meant prison, but he could see nothing of the squat building that could call that state to mind. He was marching forward not knowing what lay before. He had a canvas bag over his head!

  As chance would have it another column was also approaching the tall, narrow, yet imposing gate arch, topped by a firing gallery that glowered down onto the road below. This column did comprise the gatherings of a Recruiting Sergeant and it contained Joe Pike. On present progress the prisoner column would arrive just in front, a fact not lost on a tall, aristocratic Officer who was Officer of the Guard for that day. Captain Lord Charles Carravoy decided to alter matters. Left hand sunk into the hand guard of his elegant sword, he strode forward to confront the head of the prisoner column.

  Deakin had seen the imposing Officer leave the shadow of the gate and march forward. He had wondered which column he would challenge, but the answer was soon provided, if not by the direction of his march, then certainly by the direction of his gaze.

  “Corporal, halt your men”

  “Column. Halt”.

  The dishevelled and tired men shambled to a halt. Carravoy continued forward, this bedraggled collection needed investigating, also they needed a thorough berating for their appalling appearance.

  “What the Hell is this, Corporal? Report.”

  “Corporal Deakin, Sir. Six escort and twelve prisoners. Now arrived from Devizes Assize. Sir.”

  “This is a damn shambles, Corporal. Report.”

  “It was a tough march, Sir. Most of the prisoners b’aint used to this kind of trek. Also, we had trouble, Sir.”

  “Why does that man have a bag over his head, and why is that soldier being supported?”

  Carrovoy gestured to the almost slumped soldier being supported by one escort and one prisoner.

  “That’s what I meant by trouble, Sir. The one blindfolded tried to escape and assaulted that guard in the attempt.”

  “Right. Him to the Guardhouse, wounded to the Surgeon, the rest onto The Square. Enter after this other column, and when I see you on the Parade Ground, I want you smartened up!”

  “Sir.”

  Carravoy departed to place himself at the head of the other column that was up and passing the junction of the two tracks to the Barrack Gate. Deakin’s experienced eye knew exactly what this column was made up of. He knew the Sergeant, knew of his role and recognised the gaudy cockade and the smirking grin being delivered in his direction. This Sergeant, experienced in his task, had managed to drive some semblance of military bearing into his charges, all now marching in step, left foot matching the beat given out by the accompanying Drummer Boy, resplendent in gold jacket with scarlet collar and cuffs.

  Deakin leaned resignedly on his musket; wrists draped over the muzzle, leaning slightly forward and his weight supported by the long Brown Bess with its butt on the soil just before his shabby boots. He turned to the nearest figure to him, first in the prisoner line, who happened to be John Davey, still bound at the wrists and a halter from his neck to the wrists of the man behind. It was not lost on Deakin that Davey had worn the march well.

  “There you see it, Davey. Them’s Volunteers, and Officers like him will always see them as better than you. Unless.”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless lots of times you does things that makes you look very special.”

  “How special?”

  “Every time it has to be something, the doing of which, makes it very likely that you’ll get your head blowed off!”

  Davey sniggered and Deakin permitted himself a grin. By now the Volunteers had passed. Time to move. Deakin lifted himself from his musket, then raised the same to his left shoulder.

  “Escort. Shoulder arms. Forward.”

  The column resumed its progress, but there was little in its appearance that could be described as military. Besides the incongruous giant with a bag over his head, wrists bound before him and being towed along at the back of the line, few backs were straight and most legs bent with the weariness of the past week’s march. Weariness refused to allow those legs to straighten even over the last few yards, the result being that their feet moved in no unison at all, giving the column more the appearance of a disjointed insect that anything associated with the British Army. In thus manner Deakin’s command progressed up the main track just yards behind the column of Volunteers. Deakin’s remained a dishevelled and shambolic spectacle, one column of swaying, bound men flanked by guards and made worst by the final ignominy of walking wounded supported by others. In stark contrast the volunteers strode ahead, even with swinging arms, now in rhythm to the drumbeat of the cocky Drummer boy at the rear. He thought the occasion secure enough to turn around and treat Deakin to a highly insolent grin. The taunt was intensified by the eyes in a dirty face that flashed from Deakin to his charges, but Deakin knew enough of Drummer boys, and the stony look and the lifting of his head told yon Drummermite that he had best face his front if he knew what was good for him. The young face fell and the head quickly turned.

  The Volunteers reached the high arch and they passed into dark shadow, but the sound of their marching feet and the sharp drumbeat echoed back from the curving stonework above them. They passed on into the weak light and further onto the Parade Ground. The clean rhythm of their feet and arms and their upright backs and shoulders, set the heads nodding and the eyebrows lifting of those who happened to be there watching the events of that post noon. However, any feelings of high optimism for the Battalion were soon dissolved by what emerged next from the darkness of the gate arch. It was obvious, and the well-used phrase entered the many experienced heads amongst those who looked on; “King’s hard bargains”. Before the anxiety of 1805 the argument had raged about patriotic volunteers soon to be stood, in equality, with criminals who had opted for the Army rather than the lash, deportation, or worse. Here was the argument eloquently arranged before their very eyes. The “hard bargains” shuffled and lurched in, nothing soldierly in any of them, and one plainly so poor a recruit that he had to be denied the sight of even where he was. Heads that had been set nodding with pleasure, changed immediately to being shaken with censure and disapproval, emphasised by eyeballs rolling skyward and mouths set in grim lines.

  The Officer of the Day, Ensign Barnaby Rushby, emerged running from the Colonel’s Office to discover what was about, scabbard held safely away from his feet, right arm pumping furiously. Close to the object of his concern, the run reduced to a rapid birdlike walk. Unsurprisingly, he had targeted the Volunteers first, now drawn up, stood at ease in four good lines of 10. Salutes were exchanged.

  “You’d better hold your men here, Sergeant. I’ll fetch the Colonel.”

  “Sir.”

  He moved on, to Deakin’s party, halted glaringly in the middle of the Parade Ground. This gave the prisoner party a chance to appraise their surroundings, whilst conversations, of which they were the subject, continued around them. The sight before them would have dampened even the c
heeriest of spirits in bright Spring sunshine, but on such an afternoon, the inevitable emotions of such as they, were of gloom and despondency. The whole aspect of the barracks was inward and functional; plain narrow windows and doors stared at them from the plain fortress stonework, some windows guarded by threatening bars, plainly the prison within the prison.

  “Better to draw yours up before The Guardroom, Corporal. Is that man wounded?”

  He indicated the Private, barely holding himself up, between his two supports.

  “Yes Sir. He was attacked and wounded by that prisoner, I mean recruit, there, Sir. Captain Carravoy said he was to the taken to the Guardroom.”

  Deakin indicated Tiley, facing the wrong way, with a bag over his head.

  “Well then, er, wounded to the sickbay, and carry out your orders.”

  “Sir.”

  Deakin saluted the disappearing back, now jogging off to find the Colonel. He turned to Mulcahey.

  “Pat, you and Stiles get Tiley to the Guardroom. Take him off now. Tom, get the rest over to the Guardroom windows and see if you can’t get them to stand up straight. I’m going to the office to get these papers signed.”