“Thank you, Colonel Lacey, thank you for your kind words of welcome.” He paused and remained standing.
“I am pleased to be a member of a battalion that will soon be in action. I intend to do my best, and to do my duty, as I’m sure does every Officer here. Forgive me Gentlemen, for stating the obvious, but we are soldiers and we are at war. At some time, sooner or perhaps later, we will meet the French. Stout hearts and strong arms will do the job; and not forgetting the Roast Beef of Old England.”
Smiles and chuckles were seen and heard from around the table. All now looked at Carr. He had their attention.
“I’ve met the French, as have others here. I’ve seen then in action, I know what happens. They come on at you, in column, all noise and capering, shouts and drums, but one thing to me is clear. Things don’t work out for them when they’re stood up to. They don’t like a good steady line to their front, standing up, and off to the flanks. There are no better soldiers in the world than us at defending the ground we’re stood on. If that’s how it is, we’ll beat them; nothing more certain, each man standing his ground, and our men getting off their three rounds a minute. So; a toast, if I may Colonel. To stout hearts and three rounds a minute!”
A cheer and then the toast was echoed around the table and all drank. Then the applause, hands drumming on the table.
“Well said, Carr.”
“Hear him, hear him!”
Whilst both rapped the table in applause, Lacey and his Senior Major exchanged querulous looks. The Major spoke first.
“What have we here? A fool or a firebrand?”
“I suspect a little of both.”
Each nodded agreement to the other. Meanwhile all were showing their approval in some way, except Carravoy. He was sat almost opposite Carr. He showed no reaction, save a knowing smile accompanied by a quizzical frown. Lacey rose to his feet again and resumed his address.
“Thank you, Captain Carr. In truth, I didn’t expect a speech, but those are good words, and wise one’s too. Now, the soup’s getting cold. Gentlemen, time to eat.”
It was a good meal. Plain, but hot and wholesome. After the soup came boiled mutton, followed by figgy duff, Carr’s favourite, all washed down with a good claret. Carr sat between two other Captains. One was Militia, just joined. The other, as Livermore had said, had been washed up with the 9th, but he also was no veteran. He had embarked on the 9th’s fateful voyage, but, not long before that, he had joined from the Militia. As the last plates were cleared away, the Colonel established silence again in the same fashion as before.
“Ensign Rushby. The Loyal Toast, if you please.”
Rushby was the most Junior Officer present. It fell to him to make the Loyal Toast. He rose to his feet, as did all the others.
“Gentlemen. The King.”
“The King!”
That done, many Officers took their leave and the port and nuts circulated. Carr and Carravoy remained and the port did its work on top of the claret. From a Lieutenant sat opposite Carr, one Nathaniel Drake, came,
“Captain Carr. A glass with you Sir.”
This meant that each should fill his glass and then empty it, in accompaniment with the other. Carr showed his half empty glass to the Orderly. It was filled and then quickly emptied in unison, one with the other. With the Loyal Toast done, the conversation could move to “shop”; soldierly concerns. Lacey leaned forward.
“Carr, I don’t know if you’ve met my Senior Major?”
“No Sir.”
“Then may I put that right? Captain Henry Carr, please meet Major Padraigh O’Hare.”
“I pleased to meet you, Captain Carr. May I welcome you to the Battalion?’
This delivered in the smoothest, most lilting Irish brogue that Carr had ever heard.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Major O’Hare. Thank you for your kind welcome.”
Lacey rejoined.
“Padraigh was with Abercrombie at Alexandria, in the year one. He has something to say about lines versus columns.”
“That’s right, Colonel. I was a Captain in the 28th Gloucesters, and it was a damned hard episode. We had to fight front and rear for a while, you know, but if I understand Henry correctly, he is saying that lines beat columns because of superior firepower delivered from a steady line. A French column is often between 50 to 100 files wide. That means only those in front can fire. Only up to 100 replying to something like 800. He’s right, a steady line will win every time, but only if it stays steady. The French soften you up with cannon fire and sharpshooters before the column arrives, and it works. Certainly it has against the Austrians and Prussians, and they know a thing or two about fighting.”
Lacey joined in,
“And I saw the answer against the Colonists. Sharpshooters out front. Theirs brought down our gunners and Officers so badly that our lines lost cohesion and we lost our advantage in cannon. Light Infantry out in front, protecting our main line until they close, to within 100, perhaps even 50 yards I’d say. I hear that Moore has been developing Light Infantry tactics over in Shorncliffe. That gives me, at least, some cause for optimism.”
Carravoy had been listening to the conversation but made no contribution. Until now.
“A heady speech that, Captain Carr.”
Carr made no reply, instead he regarded Carravoy with his usual blank but indulgent stare.
“Where was it that you faced the French? Exactly?”
“During the Irish Rebellion in ’98. I was at Castlebar, Ballinamuck, and the taking of Killala.”
“But we lost at Castlebar. Notwithstanding what Major O’Hare has said, in your view how does that square with your idea of lines against columns?’
“The French column went straight at the Militia. They had the advantage of being in line, but they didn’t stand. It’s all very well talking about superior firepower, but if you’re a ranker in the path of that column, you know that if they reach you, you’re dead. It’s intimidating and that’s what the French column relies on. You fire, one, two, volleys, but the French come on, the following ranks stepping over the dead. They look unstoppable. The men in their path very soon take on a severe fright, and if they don’t see that column stopped, and soon; they run and you’ve lost. The French come on with their shouts and drums, and they look unbeatable, and they feel unbeatable, especially if you’ve just endured sharpshooters and grapeshot, as the Major says. The men in the way of that column have to feel that it’s being stopped. If not, they run! On the Militia, it worked perfectly. These French tactics prey on the mind you see, as well as the body.”
“True,” added Lacey. “But I feel that we can also prey on their minds. A steady, long red line, all trained and moving as one, now that’s intimidating. Never mind their shouts and screams and drums and what. A long, silent, red line. Disciplined and standing firm and steady. That’s something that will prey on their minds, and I think I’m right.”
He paused and placed his hands on the table.
“But, ah! I’ll leave you Gentlemen to another glass of port. Early rise in the morning. Trouble with the stores. I bid you goodnight.”
All rose and returned the Colonel’s goodnight. The port circulated and all sat in silence for a minute or so. Carravoy broke the silence, his sarcastic tone carrying thinly veiled menace.
“Captain Carr. I wonder if you could help me to settle something. I was in a discussion, maybe even an argument, about duelling. I maintained the position that in a duel involving sabres, only the point or the edge may be used to lay a blow on your opponent. Do you have a view?”
Carr made no immediate reply, but to sit back, fold his arms, and regard Carravoy with a relaxed stare from under his eyebrows, his head tilting forward. Carravoy returned the look with an amused smile. All others were silent. Padraigh O’Hare felt the tension and leaned forward on both elbows. He was worried. After a moment, Carr replied.
“In my reading of the Code Duello, which controls these things, nothing is said at all ab
out how you fight your opponent. Convention, not the Code, is that you use only the weapon, but were you to throw a stone, you would offend no written part of the Code.”
“But would you not agree that duels occur between Gentlemen, and Gentlemen should use a weapon as it was intended. One fires a pistol at an opponent, one doesn’t use it as a club, or hurl it at his head. The same applies, don’t you think, to a sword. It has an edge and a point and that is what you use.”
“My Lord. I have been in a duel with sabres, as I think you know. Perhaps you haven’t. I was being beaten, I admit it. I still carry the wounds.”
He pointed to the lurid diagonal line dividing his left eyebrow.
“It was clear to me that soon I would be dead. Facing death, and I put it that strongly, I chose to make a fight of it the best way I knew; it was that or be slowly cut up and killed. I fought as though in battle, and I came out alive. As the winner? Well, that’s debatable.”
“Debatable. I’ll say! Faced with evident superiority, a Gentleman would have lowered his sword and given best.”
“Given best? Given in, you mean. Also, that would have made me guilty of what I had been accused of: cheating. Does not a gentleman’s code tell him that honour comes before life? It certainly should for an Officer. If you can still fight, you fight! If Templemere thought it was all taking place as though in a ballroom or on a ballet stage, not a battle field, then he was mistaken. For me, I was in a fight for my life, so I fought. I make no apology. All I can say is that you so-called Gentlemen, expecting your opponent to obligingly carry on the duel according to your rules until he’s skewered, should be much more careful about who you pick a fight with. Some may actually, and justifiably in my opinion, turn it into a real fight.”
“And I still say that a Gentleman would …….
O’Hare intervened. His Irish accent giving bite to his commanding words.
“Carravoy, Carr. That’s enough. You’ve both made your points, and frankly, Carravoy, I’m disappointed that you should raise such a thing as an Officer’s past encounters at the Mess table. Especially his first time at this table of comrades. Leave, now, both of you. Off to your billets, and let this argument between you occur no more. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Major,” came in unison. Both left the table, collected their shakoes and left into the night. One turned left, the other right.
oOo
The barracks was settling for the night. Corporal Pat Mulcahey was tucking up his four children, two boys and two girls, onto a mattress divided by a long rolled up blanket. They were getting older and boys and girls in the exact same bed just wasn’t proper to one such as him and his good wife Bridie, both firmly of the Catholic persuasion. Bridie had a younger sister, Mary O’Keefe, Bridie the eldest of six, Mary the youngest. Mary slept in what can best be described as a “lean to”, only it was a blanket that did the leaning, being suspended from a shelf above and slanting down, giving Mary a secluded sleeping space. She was settling herself in the one place in the day that she could call her own, when Jed Deakin arrived in their living space, as he usually did at the end of the day, to talk to Pat. Mary saw his boots pass the end of her “bothy” and she looked out and up from around the blanket,
“Hello, Jed.”
“Hello, Mary.”
The head was withdrawn.
Bridie Mulcahey, warned by Mary’s greeting, gave the same, and Pat looked up from lavishing affections upon his children.
“Hello, Bridie. Everything alright? Pat, we’ll be needed in the morning, best get up early. There’ll be drill for the recruits, and Tiley’s trial, too, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll be needed for that. Some of our new ‘uns will need shifting, and if they don’t shift, it’ll be us as gets it. Could be a busy day, then. I’ll see you in the morning, Pat.”
“For sure, Corporal.”
Deakin turned to leave, but an elfin face had appeared above the blanket of the children’s mattress and held up her arms in Deakin’s direction.
“Uncle Jed.”
This prompted kisses and hugs for all four of the Mulcahey children, administered from “Uncle” Jed, and, with all the tenderness he could find, his rough hands smoothed hair and hoisted up the blanket to just the right height below their lined up faces. A last smile at Bridie and Jed was gone.
The night began, but for Percival Sedgwicke it was the worst of his life. His mattress seemed to be filled with everything that bites and the night was filled with the sounds of snoring, grunting, farting, fornicating and shouts from those dreaming of far into their past. Such words as he could discern clearly were born from the depths of nightmares and the sentiment that they carried was of battle and terror, and it did little to ease the gnawing fear and apprehension that was large within him. For much of the night he consoled himself in prayer, his despair giving potency to his ability to compose the correct litany, asking his God to forgive his past transgressions and praying for deliverance from this place of sin and wickedness. At some stage he fell into an exhausted sleep, but it seemed that after no time at all, he was being kicked awake.
oOo
Chapter Three
A Soldier’s Life
Breakfast came and went. The meal was bread and either small beer or tea, brewed from second-hand leaves used once and now donated by the Officer’s Mess. Plus whatever was left in the copper stew pans, the contents of which were re-heated and thinned with water. The occasion took place at the barrack room tables, amid the din of wives, children and shouted orders. All was to be done within 30 minutes, including dressing and preparations for the forthcoming parade. Coincidentally with eating, grooming took place, particularly to achieve the regulation hairstyle. Davey took care of Sedgwicke’s whilst he was eating, for which Sedgwicke was thankful. It took his mind off the distasteful process and, his hair still being Parson length in the clerical style, it was long enough to tie back quickly and easily. He was even more thankful when a woman from another barrack room, whom he described to himself as “of the same ilk” as Davey, offered to take care of Davey’s hair. Neither Davey nor Sedgwicke objected.
All were to parade outside with full equipment, in the ten companies that comprised a battalion; with the exception of the “new men”. They were to form up outside the Guardroom, in four ranks, facing across a short side of the Parade Ground. At 7.30 each man was in his proper place in his company, waiting for orders and waiting for the slow breaking of a November dawn that would replace the deep November night. The moon still shone between the scudding clouds, whilst all, including the recruits, stood still and observant. The silence of the parade ground was uncanny, made more so by the solid ranks of hundreds of red-coated soldiers eerily making neither sound nor movement. If there was a moment when the receruit’s life as a soldier began, then this was that time. Orders were barked out and the ten companies marched out of the gate and away, marching to regulation step with shouldered arms. Off to what the recruits could only guess at.
With the last echo of the marching feet fading from the four walls, the recruits found themselves confronted with Sergeant Major Gibney. Gibney was immaculate. His height would have made him imposing even were he not, but everything about his uniform was in perfect order, right down to the silver topped Drill Cane tucked under his left arm and the shining hilt of his Sergeant’s short sword. It was now, despite yesterday’s noteworthy events, that they noticed that Gibney had a peculiar accent.
“First. Inspection. I desires to take a good look at thee.”
With that he began a slow march up and between the ranks of four. With little kit issued, he did not expect too much to be wrong, nor, in fairness, could he complain too much about kit that was only issued hours ago. As long as they were clean and buttons were in the right holes, this time he would be satisfied. All right, so far. And so far. He stopped.
“Name.”
“Percival Sedgwicke.”
“Percy. My boy! Thee has a first name that I does not want to hear, but thee has a r
ank that I does want to hear, and so has I. I wants to hear both, mine and thine.”
“Private Sedgwicke. Sergeant Major.”
“Better. That’s correct. Yes; but there’s nowt correct about the cow-herd boots that thee has decided to wear this morning on my parade. Tha’ boots are so filthy, I can smell ‘em from here!”
Sedgwicke had done nothing to improve the appearance of the boots that he had been issued with at Devizes and they now showed as more mud than leather. What Davey had done, he hadn’t, and the clean gaiters accentuated the boots’ filthy state. All else was quite satisfactory; he had, after all, once dressed for society.
“Can thee smell tha’ boots, Sedgwicke?”
“No, Sergeant Major.”
“Then us’ll put that right, because I can. Why should I suffer what thee doesn’t? Corporal, get me a length of twine.”
A length of twine was found and Sedgwicke removed his boots. There were no lace holes. The boot was really a heavy shoe that the foot was thrust into like a slipper, but nevertheless the pair were tied together around the arch between the sole and heel and Sedgwicke suffered the indignity of both now being draped around his neck by Sergeant Major Gibney. The inspection continued. Some buttons were wrongly fastened and some slouched in their uniform more than stood, but Gibney was content with the start.
“That’ll do for first off. But now, harken. Not from here on. Boots must be blackened and buttons polished. Jackets and breaches must be clean and hair tied back. And especially clean, when thee gets ‘em, shakoes, muskets and bayonets. Especially tha’ muskets and bayonets. Right, inspections done. Now, take good notice. After what thee looks like, the next thing that we has to teach thee, is to come to attention. That way thee’ll keep out of trouble with th’Officers, and wi’ me! Attention should give thee no problem. Up straight, feet together, arms straight down. Right. Attention!”
All managed after a fashion, some were straightened by the Corporals that had arrived front and sides to help Gibney with his educating.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 9
