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

by Martin McDowell

  Only Pat Mulcahey made a reply, “Right you are, Corporal,” whilst Stiles released Tiley’s tether from the neck of the man in front.

  Tom Miles’ answer was to turn and shout at the party,

  “Now listen. You about face, that is turn around, and follow Peters over to those windows with bars.”

  None waited for a command, all just did it, haphazardly, increasing the tangle now caused by their tethers. What had once been a tidy neck back to the wrists of the one behind, was now wrists back to the neck of the man behind and so each had to hold their tethered hands out to the side to allow the rope to extend back. Private John Peters motioned for the leading prisoner to follow him, which he did, bringing on the others. Miles had moved to the wounded escort and was supporting him alone.

  “Come on, mate. Let’s get you to the Surgeon. He’ll fix you up, plus a drop of strong stuff too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  The reply was a weak grin in the sickly pale face.

  oOo

  Ensign Rushby rushed into The Messroom, sword scabbard clattering against the doorframe, and was relieved to find the Colonel there, seated at the long table, going through some papers with Quartermaster Sergeant Harold Sleightman. Rushby was a tall, slim, callow youth who always seemed to be living up to his name; always giving the appearance of being in an anxious hurry. However, he came to the attention well enough, saluted correctly and reported.

  “Two parties of recruits have just marched in, Sir. I say, “marched”, Sir, but that may not be quite right. One is a party of volunteers with the Recruiting Sergeant; the other is a bunch of tethered felons, marched in by Corporal Deakin. Do you have any orders, Sir?”

  Lieutenant Colonel William Lacey had responded to the noisy entrance and was studying Ensign Rushby calmly.

  “Mr Rushby.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are the Officer of the Day. What would your solution be to the arrival of two new parties of recruits?”

  “Well, Sir. I’d get them issued with drill whites, first. Then see them off to their billets. Get them clean, and then some food. Sir.”

  “An excellent solution, Mr Rushby. Then you don’t need me.”

  “Yes, Sir. But I thought that you might want to say something to these men, having just joined the Regiment, Battalion, I mean. Especially the Volunteers. Sir.”

  Colonel Lacey adopted his thinking pose. His left index finger came to the space between his upper lip and his finely chiselled nose.

  “Hmmm. You may have a point. Two parties just arrived, you say?’

  “Yes, Sir. Two parties, 40 Volunteers, and 12 “Hard Bargains”, Sir.”

  “Desist with the “Hard Bargains”, Mr Rushby. You may well find those same men stood at your shoulder in a murderous firefight, or going up into some even more murderous breach! Then we’ll find out who the “hard bargains” are.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Right. I’ll address the Volunteers. You find Captain Heaviside, and ask him to do the same for the, er, “Assize Volunteers”. Perhaps a bit of his religious fervour won’t come amiss in their case.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Rushby gave a perfect salute, turned on his heel and marched out, this time managing to control the wayward scabbard. Colonel Lacey turned to his Quartermaster Sergeant.

  “I’m not happy, Sarn’t Sleightman, but we’ll leave it there for now. We’ve not been here one month, and already what’s in your stores doesn’t tally with what’s in your ledgers. If you say that your Clerks can’t read, write, and cipher, then get some who can. There must be someone in this Barracks who can do a competent job as a Stores Clerk. I hope I am clear. Dismiss.”

  Sleightman rose to his feet, gathered his ledgers and papers, tucked them all under his left arm and with his right delivered a blistering salute, which Lacey briefly acknowledged.

  Lacey was a Colonel called back from retirement. 47 years of age, he still had the figure and bearing of a much younger man, but his face carried the weariness of a man who had contended all his professional life with disillusionment and defeat. As a young Ensign, younger than Rushby, in 1775 he had carried his Regiment’s Colour up the bloody slope of Bunker Hill and, as the Colonel of his own Regiment in 1781, he had led them out after the defeat at Yorktown, marching to the tune of “The World Turned Upside Down”. Until the Treaty of Paris in 1783 he was stationed in Canada on the de facto border, expecting a repeat of the new United States Continental Army’s attempt during the war years to invade Canada. He had then spent 21 further years on Garrison Duty around the North American Continent, dealing with threats and rebellions and enduring the fierce heat and freezing wastes of the high Canadian Plains.

  Both the defeats and the victories that he had lived through had distilled one salient item of wisdom within him; that it is the role of the Senior Officers in any Regiment to ensure that every man knows his duty and has the capabilities to carry them out. Then, everyone has a good chance of finishing any kind of battlefield encounter in one piece or, at least, still alive. He did his best to apply this maxim wherever he was in a position to, but worn out, he retired in 1804. However, he was now back in uniform, called back by his old friend General Sir Henry Livermore, who needed experienced Staff Officers who could pull together the mix of volunteers, gaol sweepings, Militia, and survivors from shattered Regiments that were being gathered together to meet the invasion threat of Napoleon.

  Lacey walked to the Mess Cloakroom, retrieved his shako and buckled on his sword. He then walked out into the growing gloom of the November afternoon. The cloud had thickened and threatened rain. He saw what was obviously the parade of Volunteers and walked smartly over. The Recruiting Sergeant spotted him early.

  “Parade. Atten shun!”

  In a not unsoldierly manner, the 40 Volunteers brought their feet together, lifted their heads and straightened their backs.

  “Stand the men easy, Sergeant.”

  “Parade. Stand at ease.”

  As they had been taught, their left foot moved eighteen inches away from their right.

  “You’ve done a good job, Sergeant. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Sir. And, if I may say so, Sir, this here’s a good lot.”

  “You may, and thank you once again.”

  Lacey turned to stand straight and upright before the Volunteers.

  “Now, men. It falls to me to thank you for answering your Country’s call in her hour of need. You haven’t come to a Regiment as such. We are a Battalion of Detachments composed of men from Regiments that are now too small to remain independent, and so they have been gathered here to await orders. Plus recruits like yourselves and Militia. Thus we are called the 5th Detachments. We may be sent to fight as a Provisional Battalion or disbanded and sent to make up the muster of other Regiments, but that is in the future. You are amongst trained men and some are real veterans. Learn from them and you will become good soldiers, worthy of your red jacket.

  He paused. The Volunteers remained stock still.

  “Bonaparte is stuck over The Channel, but he is still there, and who knows what he may yet try. England needs men ready to stand up and defend these shores, and, we hope, carry the fight to him on his own soil. We stand for freedom, he for tyranny. We fight for our King and Country, he for conquest and personal glory. He hasn’t fought the British Army yet, at least not in open battle. He’s got that nasty surprise coming, and if we’re there, on that day, he’ll find out that the British Redcoat is a very special soldier and doesn’t give best too easily, if ever!”

  The Recruiting Sergeant’s smile had broadened with every word.

  “Three cheers for The King and The Colonel. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, and thank you men. Now, Sergeant, get these men off to the Quartermaster, get them their drill whites and get them to their billets. And get them fed”.

  “Yes, Sir. Very good, Sir.”

  Lacey turned and headed off to his office. It was a short walk
but it crossed the path of Captain Jacob Heaviside, him hurrying to address the much smaller group of prisoners. Heaviside also lived up to his name. He was of medium height, but he looked smaller, for his muscular legs and shoulders making him look squat and powerful. Salutes and greetings were exchanged.

  Heaviside hurried on, and then he noticed Sergeant Major Gibney watching from the side of the Parade Ground.

  “Gibney. With me.”

  “Sir.”

  Gibney fell in step with the Captain, but remained a respectful yard behind. They reached the sorry rank of prisoners, now rid of their tethers, at least, but shapeless in their grey greatcoats and some ridiculous with bare legs emerging from army boots. Deakin had rejoined his men. Gibney took command.

  “Parade. Atten shun.”

  The soldier escort came to the smart upright. The prisoners mostly just looked bemused. Heaviside drew himself up, three yards before his audience. It began to rain.

  “The wicked man travaileth with pain all his days: Book of Job, chapter 15, verse 20. You are all wicked, ungodly men. Were you not, you would not be here. You would not be here, because it is not in your character to volunteer. Although your country be in peril, you would not have stepped forward to answer the need of your King and his people, but it is now so. Be sure your sin will find you out: Numbers, chapter 32, verse 23. The Courts have now sent you to answer your country’s call, and you now find yourselves amongst us.”

  For Percival Sedgwicke, for the first time in days, hope welled up inside him. He raised his face and eyes to study this obvious Man of God. He could not stop himself. He cried out,

  “Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law. Galatians, chapter 3, verse 13.”

  Gibney strode forward.

  “Listen. Filth! Tha’ speaks only when an Officer asks thee to. Clear?”

  This was delivered six inches from Sedgwicke’s face, close enough so that he could smell the beer and onions the Sergeant Major had consumed for his dinner. Sedgwicke’s face just registered shock and fear, but Gibney returned to his place, just behind and to the right of the Officer. Heaviside continued.

  “You are all now Soldiers of the King, and subject to his discipline. The light of the wicked shall be put out, and the spark of his fire shall not shine: Job, chapter 18, verse 5. Any transgressions against the orders and instructions of your superiors and betters will result in the lash. Make no mistake; you will “kiss the drummer’s daughter!” But: With his stripes we are healed: Isaiah, chapter 53, verse 5. You now have the chance to redeem yourselves. You will wear the King’s uniform and fight his enemies. You will recover your honour and you will turn to Christ. Church parade will strengthen your salvation, each Sunday……”

  Again, Sedwicke could not contain himself, and besides, he felt himself wholly misunderstood.

  “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world. John, chapter 1, verse 29.”

  Heavitree stopped and waited for Gibney to, once again, stride forward. He was a big man. Sergeant Majors often had to enforce discipline with their fists and Gibney was no exception. Over his time he had learnt to judge the weight of a punch against the weight of a man, and most often, as in this case, his judgment was perfect. His huge fist slammed into the left corner of Sedgwicke’s mouth, just enough to knock him down, but not enough to knock him out. Sedgwicke was sent spinning out of the front rank and into the man behind. He remained on all fours shocked at the blood that was dripping from his stinging mouth.

  “Get him back on his feet.”

  The two nearest reacted speedily to the order, fearing the same treatment for themselves. Sedgwicke was hauled back upright and shoved back into line. Heavitree continued, making no reference to what had just happened. It was an issue between rankers.

  “Each Sunday you will attend Church Parade and you must convince me that you are singing and praying with every fibre of your miserable beings and then, believe me, you will be cleansed. Turn Thou us into Thee, O Lord, and we shall be turned: Lamentations, chapter 5, verse 21. Now, Deakin, isn’t it?”

  Deakin had been stood to perfect attention all through. Facing his front.

  “Sir.”

  “Get these men off to the Quartermaster, get them some drill whites, into their barracks, and get them fed. Eat that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way: One Samuel, chapter 28, verse 22. Gibney, dismiss the parade.”

  Gibney took Heavitree’s place as he strolled off.

  “Now listen, cowdung! I am going to give thee an order. I will say parade dismiss. Thee turns to tha’ right, stands still, and when I say so, Deakin will lead thee off. So thee turns towards him. Here we go. Parade diss miss.”

  Most knew where Deakin was and most knew right from left, but two found themselves nose to nose with the next along, and, all four became confused, with each not sure who was correct, they or he? They had to be turned around to face the right way.

  “By the right, forward march.”

  All but one this time lifted the correct foot, but the step was soon lost. Led by Deakin with two other Privates, the two lines traversed the Parade Ground.

  oOo

  “Officer of the Guard! Rider approaching. Sir.”

  Captain Lord Carravoy lurched resignedly off the inside wall of the entrance arch. He would have to go outside into the steady rain, but at least he had his greatcoat, recently tailored, just brought to him by his servant and it with it’s double layer of fine broadcloth to protect his upper back and shoulders. He walked a short way down the track, accompanied by the Corporal of the Guard, the one who had just called him. A lone rider was being carried up the right hand track by an evidently tired horse. The rider wore an issue greatcoat and a black bicorne hat, “fore and aft”. The dark grey of the wet greatcoat, the black hat, and the dark wet of the dark horse were details only just becoming clear in the rain and the gathering gloom. Behind the rider swung two portmanteaus, one large, one small, and a large sabre. After three damp minutes the horse gratefully halted before Carravoy and his Corporal. The rider spoke first.

  “Have I found the 5th Detachments, Colonel William Lacey commanding, at Taunton Barracks?’

  “You have. And you are?”

  “Captain Henry Carr. Late of the King’s Royals. I have orders to report here”

  “Do you have papers?”

  “Yes I do, but is there any chance of us getting in somewhere, out of this rain?”

  Carr dismounted, and without waiting for an invitation, led his horse towards the shelter of the arch. Carravoy broke the silence.

  “Would you be the Carr that had a little to-do with Fred Templemere a while back?”

  Carr turned his head towards his interlocutor, a move accentuated by the front point of the bi-corn hat. It was a while before he spoke.

  “Bad news travels fast! Yes, I am he. You speak as though you are acquainted with my Lord Templemere.”

  “That is so, and I haven’t introduced myself. I am Captain Lord Charles Carravoy, friend of the family. The Templemere family, that is. So you’d be “puncher” Carr?”

  Carr ignored the question. They had now made the shelter of the arch and so he reached inside his greatcoat and produced his papers.

  “My papers, that being my Commission and my orders to report to Colonel Lacey. Could you tell off someone to take me to the Colonel’s Office, please?”

  Carravoy scanned the papers quickly and returned them. He turned to the nearest Private.

  “Take this Officer to the Colonel’s Office.” Then, turning to Carr,

  “Welcome go the 5th Detachments, Carr. I hope to see you later, in The Mess. I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

  Carr replied without looking. He was studying his horse.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I look forward to it.”

  Carravoy replied,

  “Not much of a horse, that. Carr.”

  Carr looked up, and with his indulgent, half mouth smile, replied,

&nb
sp; “Just so, but he got me here, and, in my experience, Captains fight on foot.”

  With that he led his horse after the disappearing Private and followed him across one side of the Parade Ground, until they reached an imposing door surrounded by the only ornate stonework in the whole barracks. Carr removed his belongings and told the Private to take the horse to the stables. With the horse gone, Carr did his best to shake out some of the rain from his soaked greatcoat, the wet having now reached his red jacket, darkening the cloth across his shoulders. He entered the door and, leaving his belongings in the hallway, he went through another and approached the Sergeant Clerk behind the desk.

  “Evening Sir. How can I help?”

  “Captain Carr reporting for duty. Here are my papers.”

  “Yes, Sir. The Colonel’s in his Office. I’ll take these in, and if you’ll just wait a moment, I’m sure that the Colonel will see you directly.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  With that the Sergeant rose and went through the door behind and to the left, leaving it ajar. Therefore, Carr heard the Sergeant tell of his arrival and the brief reply of “Send him in. And we need candles.” The Sergeant re-emerged and held open the door.

  “Colonel Lacey will see you now, Sir.”

  Carr entered the Office and found Lacey standing behind a smallish, plain mahogany desk, ready to receive him and shake hands. The room was utterly sparse and cheerless, made more so by an empty colour stand, the two “O”s on their long stalks waiting to take charge of the shafts of the two Colours of a Regiment, but both gaping with dismay at the absence of their honourable occupiers. The two tall windows on the inside wall, showing only a slate grey sky, added to the gloom.

  “Welcome, Carr. Welcome to the 5th Detachments. Pleased to see you. Not too unpleasant a journey, I hope.”

  “It was tolerable until the rain started, Sir.”

  “Yes, quite. The infantryman’s curse, eh. To soak and freeze. Well, I see that Livermore sent you. How did you find him.”

  “Well enough, Sir. In fact in good health, I’d say. I must say I liked him. He impressed me as a “soldier’s soldier. Bluff and to the point.”