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

by Martin McDowell

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well. The likes of you went to worship and to meet others of the same standing. We had to go to keep ourselves in work and shelter. If the Squire didn’t see you in a pew behind him, with your family, and then you paying your respects after, outside, you was one step down the road to losing both your job and your cottage.

  Sedgwicke looked quizzical and gave a slight shake to his head.

  “Ah, you can shake your head, Parson, but I’ve seen it, and often. When times got hard, and some had to go, church goin’ or no church goin’ was something that could help them decide. Especially when, as often happened, the Squire asked the Parson for his opinion.”

  “Does that mean that you went to church not for worship, but to keep your job and your standing with your betters?’

  “Betters! I’ll let that go, but it means both, Parson, and I’ll level with you straight. The job was more important than the worship.”

  “You mean you place your standing with your employer above your love of God?’

  “I mean I place food on the table, a roof over our heads and something burning in the grate above my love of God. But don’t get me wrong, Parson. I went and was glad to. Sunday is the Lord’s Day, but I know what would happen if I didn’t, and that’s something that was never in your life, but a big part in mine. The lives of the likes of me aren’t our own. You works in with what those above wants of you. If you don’t, then you suffers.”

  “But you didn’t work in, did you? You were condemned as a poacher and sent to the Army.”

  “Pots and kettles, Parson. Pots and kettles!”

  Sedgwicke felt his ire rising at so effective a reposte from someone who, not so long ago, would not have dared even to have met his gaze.

  “But that’s right Parson. I did some poaching, but again, there’s hard times that comes around. If wages is cut and rents go up, then you can’t buy meat nor even bread sometimes, and so it has to come from somewhere else. Hunger isn’t funny, Parson. Neither’s cold nor no roof over your head.”

  “Stealing’s a sin!”

  Davey chuckled.

  “You’re right there, Parson, but I knows a bigger sin, and that’s throwing a good family out of their home because you’ve both cut their wages and increased their rent. And then getting all high and mighty, saying they should have worked harder, or saved during better times. For the likes of us, there b’aint no better times. Just time to get through with the family kept together.”

  “There will always be social order, Davey. That’s natural and God’s way.”

  “Then I’d like your God to come down and get a basinful of it for himself, then, being Almighty, He might decide to make a few changes.”

  Silence fell between them. Despite the blasphemy, Sedgwicke made no reply, he could feel Davey’s temper rising and now appreciated his situation well enough to realise not to make an enemy of someone who, at least, had shown him some measure of kindness and acceptance. Sedgwicke was grateful when Davey moved away. His “hairdresser” had returned and they sat at a table quietly talking for some time.

  oOo

  Acceptance was also close to being fractured at the Nag’s Head, another Inn in Taunton, but larger than that of the Turk. The Inn itself being larger, rather than the “Head”, which helped distinguish it from that of the Turk. It was the billet of Captain Henry Carr; Lieutenant The Honourable Nathaniel Drake; and Lieutenant D’Villiers, and was one of the more comfortable Inns within the town, a Coaching House on the pike road. All three had just enjoyed a quiet dinner, their first together, made more pleasant by agreeable small talk and all were now in Carr and Drake’s room. It was a cosy room, warm and well furnished, but a little cramped for two.

  D’Villiers had his own room, being of independent means. Over dinner he had been freer with the wine and port, a more than carefree attitude and ability towards spending had helped there, and both were beginning to work on his discretion, rarely at a high level at the best of times. He was sprawled before a good fire, feet half way up the fire place, one heel resting on a bas relief of a child carrying a sheaf of corn, using the head as a convenient projection. A bottle of port that was by his side was regularly suffering major attrition.

  “I mean, how can one tell one’s friends that one is an Officer in a “Detachment Battalion? It just sounds too ridiculous; it turns one into a laughing stock. Also, it’s so damned underhand for Horse Guards to suddenly say to Officers in the Somerset Militia, “Get yourself and your men to Taunton Barracks by the 1st October.” It’s presumptuous and underhand. Even fraudulent! It’s understood that an Officer in the Militia will move up into at least a regiment with a number and name, and even one with some small standing should not be too much to hope for! It should at least be the one we’re in reserve for; the 13th. Also, there’s The Mess. Its so “trade”, and provincial, and, well, suspect. I thought that Irish Officers only served in Irish Regiments”

  Nat Drake was polishing a pair of pistols.

  “This “suspect”. Does that include present company, D’Villiers?”

  “No! Oh God no! You’re both good company, good fellows, and all that. I do think so, really. I just mean that, well, I do think that social rank should count for something within the Army of King George.”

  Carr looked over the top of his newspaper.

  “Good company! That sounds suspiciously like damning by faint praise, D’Villiers.”

  “Well I don’t mean it to. I’m disappointed, that’s the “up and down” of it. I mean a “Detachment Battalion” and all that goes with it! In Taunton, of all places!”

  Carr and Drake looked at each other, a “what’s wrong with him” look on their faces. Drake made the first reply.

  “And what’s so bad about Taunton? I find it most agreeable, apart from the weather. There’s nothing wrong with this billet, and the food’s most plentiful, and palatable, even a ‘cut above. Excellent pork and fowl, and the cheese, most good.”

  “My dear Drake, what’s food and lodging got to do with it? There’s no society. None. At least none that I would care to be invited to.”

  The port bottle suffered further dimunition.

  “You mean, D’Villiers, that it’s intolerable to find yourself in barracks in a town where the women only wear last year’s fashions, a “ticket to the show” means going to some kind of agricultural display, and you could wake up one morning to find that a goat’s chewed a hole in your breeches!”

  Conspiracy grew between them. Carr took up the theme.

  “Yes, exactly. How can a chap be expected to put up with a society where a sheep shank is what you use to tie your cravat, a “rising trot” means running your carthorse up a hill, and the only question your tailor wants an answer to is, in which pocket does Sir carry his pork pie?”

  By now, Drake had dropped his head below the table, only supporting himself by holding onto the pistol that remained upright, it still wrapped in its polishing rag, his shoulders quaking with silent mirth. Carr had crunched his paper between his two hands and was holding all before a face going through paroxysms rather than utter a sound. D’Villiers, by contrast, was oblivious to their barbed ribaldry and was off on another subject.

  “Do you think he’ll give me the Light Company? Or even the Grenadiers? It could be either. It must be one of the two. Or what about the Colour Company? Oh, yes, we haven’t got any have we? Hmmm. Well, him and my Father knew each other, you know, the Regional General too, but I’ve forgotten his name. They attended all the County occasions together, dances, point to points. I think they were in the same Hunt, even. That must count for something.”

  By now, Drake had sagged almost completely out of his chair, chest on his knees. Carr was hoping to get out of the door in order to release his pent up hilarity, but Drake recovered first and managed to fire off yet another barb.

  “What County was that, then, D’Villiers? Blastedheathshire?”

  Both Drake and Carr resumed sha
king.

  “Good Heavens, Drake, no; not in the least. I’ve never heard of such a place! Why, the family part of Somerset. Bath! Surely you’ve heard.”

  Both had recovered further. It was Drake that answered.

  “Oh, yes. D’Villiers. We’ve heard, and we’re both sure that you will be assigned to a Company the best measures up to both your social status and talents. Whatever your undoubted attributes are, I’m sure Lacey will make good use of them. I mean, who else can tie a cravat like you, or has a horse with such breeding? As you keep telling us.”

  Hearing this last, and observing their mirthful faces, the realisation that he was the butt of their wit began to dawn on the social warrior D’Villiers. He began to take umbrage.

  “I say, you two. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously at all. This is career launching stuff, you know. And at least I haven’t been thrown out of one Regiment and ended up with a bunch of sweepings. Nor been washed up on a beach! I’m at the start, and I intend to get it right. Right from the start.”

  He paused and fixed both with an alcoholic, hurt, and disapproving look.

  “I think it’s time I left, and took myself off to my own room.”

  This he did. With as much dignity as the early bottle of claret and most of the bottle of port would allow, he rose, accompanied himself with what was left of the port, navigated himself to the door, found the handle, carefully twisted it, pulled open the door and left. Carr and Drake exchanged mirthful smiles, accompanied by head shaking, and resumed their reading and polishing respectively.

  “Has he really got a thoroughbred horse?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s some racehorse in him, I do believe.”

  Carr screwed his mouth and nodded his head.

  oOo

  Second day and once again the recruits had to be kicked awake. Breakfast arrived, the same dull combination of bread, small beer, and tea, although the bread was fresh and plentiful. Davey and Sedgwicke sat in silence, whilst Dan Smith gave a cursory inspection of their kit. Tom Miles did the same for Joe Pike, but he could find no fault at all. Joe had taken good care of the metalwork, and as for that needing pipe clay, not all the veterans in the barracks were male! The Room Sergeant shouted for quiet.

  “Orders has come through about hair. Hair is to be tied back, but not soaped and powdered.”

  Cheers rang out all round.

  “But; stocks is to be worn on any parade, and during drill.”

  This last greeted by heavy groans.

  “What’s the stock, Tom?”

  Tom rose from the table and fetched Joe’s stock from his part of the cubicle. Joe had wondered what it was and how he wore it. It looked like a badly made shoe, thick black leather and two long rows of lace holes. Miles placed himself behind Joe and opened the stiff collar of the tunic further. The stiff front of the stock went under Joe’s chin and the rest, with the laces and lace holes, came around the back of his neck. The instant it was placed around his neck, Joe felt it to be stiff and uncomfortable and the stiff edges dug into his skin, both under his chin above and the sides of his neck below. That was before Miles began to lace it up. The effect worsened with the joining of each lace hole. When Miles was finished Joe could only move his head from side to side with difficulty and he could not look down at all. He felt uncertain if he could chew food, nor swallow, even.

  “What’s this for, Tom?”

  “This is to keep your head up, so that you looks right on parade. The Officers likes to see all our heads at the same slant, and this is what does it. Its called your stock and we all hate it. The only good thing about it, is that you won’t have to wear it all the time, not with this lot, at least, just on parade. And the stiffness does go, especially if you hammers the edges to make them soft, but not too much, mind, or it’ll show and that could mean the lash for damaging the King’s property. Better still, if you can get a bit of linen, like a kerchief or summat to pad out where it digs into your neck, then its not too bad.”

  The two elder Nicholls girls, who had been sat at the end of the table, immediately disappeared and re-appeared almost as quickly with a light blue kerchief that they passed along the table with nervous smiles and lowered eyes.

  “Why, thank you girls, that’s a real kindness. I’ll wear it always.”

  Tom Miles ground his teeth, clenched his fists, smote the table and looked in the other direction, whilst rising to obtain his own, well worn and sweat stained object of the same; also the stock itself, from a far peg in their cubicle. An order rang out.

  “Parade, in five minutes. Full kit.”

  All responded, haversack first, then the white crossbelts with bayonet and ammunition pouch, then the knapsack, then the canteen, with its bright leather strap. Last, each hefted his musket onto his shoulder. Thus began the second day, Morning Parade with all in their same places. After a brief inspection, as before, the Battalion marched out and the recruits were left with Gibney and the same crew of Corporals.

  “What a fine body of men! What a fine, fine, body of men, but thee b’aint “stood on parade in the regulation manner.”

  All were in correct uniform and uniform correctly arranged, but their muskets were held in whichever way the owner felt comfortable.

  “Thee remembers that left foot?”

  None could have nodded, even if they felt a reply was required. Their stocks held their heads straight ahead and high.

  “Well, think about tha’ other one, tha’ right. Tha’ musket goes alongside tha’ right leg. Do it now.”

  He paused whilst several muskets shifted over.

  “Trigger guard forward, butt close alongside tha’ right foot.”

  He paused again, whilst some muskets swivelled.

  “Right hand reaching down the barrel, fingers reaching around the barrel and hold it where it’s comfortable. Do it now.”

  All obeyed and some muskets toppled over. Some hadn’t realised that their thumb went around in the opposite direction, but order was soon restored.

  “We calls that, “Order Arms.”

  He marched to the furthest recruit to his right.

  “What does we call it?”

  “Order arms, Sergeant Major.”

  “Now then, yesterday we learnt to march, today we learns to march with a musket. A soldier’s not much good without his gun, now is he? But thee cannot march with tha’ gun dragging along the ground. Right. Keep tha’ left hand where it is, down by tha’ side, but lift tha’ fingers to make a kind of cup.”

  All did eventually, after some thought. It was their only free hand.

  “Lift up tha’ musket so that the brass plate of the butt drops into tha’ left hand. But don’t yet drop tha’ right. Hold tha’ musket steady with it”

  All did.

  “Without dropping tha’ musket, slope it back onto tha’ left shoulder, and return tha’ right hand to tha’ right side.”

  All did.

  “What fine soldiers, what fine, fine, soldiers. We calls that “shoulder arms.”

  They spent the next hour going from “shoulder” to “order”, finishing with a performance to the beat of a drum. To many, the 10lbs and more, coupled with the awkwardness of its five-foot length, turned the musket into a ton weight, and it was a great relief to all when Gibney ordered shoulder arms for the last time and set them off marching. Dinner, the main meal of the day, came as an even bigger relief and enabled the removal of the hated stock, at least for a while. The afternoon saw the introduction of “present arms” which taxed, even more, muscles that were not used to such weight shifting. At 3.30 they were paraded in their usual morning position, before the Guardhouse windows and told to “Stand with ordered arms.” A short while passed and the rest of the battalion marched in and formed up with practised ease, forming on them as the first company on three sides of a square. In no time, all was silent, each company with Officers before and N.C.O.’s behind. A chill wind ruffled the hair queues of some and the shako plumes of most.

&n
bsp; They had not stood thus for longer that two or three minutes, when three drummers marched out of the Guardhouse, each carrying a long Sergeant’s halberd, a long, almost medieval spear, each with shining steel point and a short cross piece just below, that bisected the shank that held the point onto the shaft. A single drummer boy and another drummer, he with Sergeant’s stripes and carrying a beige linen bag, followed the three. On reaching the centre of the square the three halberds were lashed together using the crosspieces and thus they formed a tall tripod. The five drummers then lined up to form the fourth side of the square.

  With this complete, as though all took place with practised regularity, Seth Tiley was brought up to the tripod, not led, but walking unaided, flanked by two Sergeants, with another behind. His hands were bound before him at the wrist and he was stripped to the waist. Quickly a tether was fixed to his bindings and one of his Sergeant escorts threw the tether over the top of the tripod such that it ran between the spearheads. Both Sergeants then hauled Tiley’s arms up the tripod to pull him against the wooden shafts, but such was his height that Tiley easily supported himself upon his own legs.

  Gibney detached himself from the parade.

  “Parade, shoulder arms.”

  The whole parade, in almost perfect unison, obeyed. With this done, Colonel Lacey and his Majors rode in on horseback, Lacey walking his horse around to face Tiley.

  “Private Tiley. You have been sentenced to two dozen lashes, for assault on a fellow soldier and attempted desertion. Drummer Sergeant, carry out the sentence.”

  The Drummer Sergeant opened the bag and took out the lash, the regulation Cat ‘o Nine Tails; one long strand that split into three, and then each of these into three “tails”, each tail having three knots. He approached Tiley and combed out the strands. One of the Sergeants gave Tiley a length of wood to bite on and then lashed it behind his head. The Drummer Sergeant placed himself four yards behind Tiley and threw the tails of the lash out behind him. The Drummerboy began a roll.