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

by Martin McDowell

  Sedgwicke looked shocked but this couldn’t disguise that he felt pleased. Deakin turned to Lance Corporal Mulcahey.

  “Pat, take over. I has some totting up to do.”

  Orders were given and the Recruit Company formed up in fours behind Captain Heaviside. They were marched off, again to the flat beat of the bleary Drummerboy, who had been shaken awake, asleep through all the firing. Deakin did his additions. Davey and Pike were equal with each other and superior to the others by four shots. At the other end of the scale, Percival Sedgwicke had not achieved one single hit.

  oOo

  The throng of young Officers around the Orders Board more resembled the scrum around the Notice Board of a Public School when Prefects were announced; the notice upon it being studied just as avidly. Those on the back were on tiptoe, whilst most craned their necks and bobbed their heads to get a view. Lieutenant D’Villiers shouldered his way back and out, the scowl on his pallid face immediately conveying his disappointment.

  “Lieutenant in Number Three Company, under Captain Heaviside. Not much more distinction than being a damned ranker! An altarboy for Holy Joe Heaviside!”

  However, his complaints were ignored as others looked to see their allocation within the battalion. Carr reached the board with Drake and both exchanged broad smiles and shook hands. Carr was Captain of the Light Company and Drake was one of his Lieutenants. Carr looked again. At the top of the list was the name Captain Lord Carravoy. The Captain of the Senior Company, the Grenadiers, which made him effectively the Senior Captain in the Battalion, but this merely reinforced what was already shown on the board, his seniority stemmed from his Commission date. Nevertherless, both Carr and Drake were delighted and took themselves off to their billet in town for a good dinner and a fine bottle.

  Soon, just one Officer was left studying the list; Ensign Rushby. He knew enough of his role in a Numbered Battalion with its two colours, the King’s and the Regimental, to know that he shouldn’t be in any Company at all, but the bearer of one of these two standards in the centre of the firing line. However, here he was listed for the Light Company, to act as a Lieutenant. He was turning away when an Irish voice stopped him.

  “A moment, Ensign Rushby.”

  Rushby turned to see Major O’Hare approaching him along the corridor. Rushby sprung to attention with his best salute.

  “Don’t take it hard that you are assigned to a Company. You understand that we are Detachments and we need to make the best use of all our Officers. The Colonel and myself feel you have a lot of potential, so we’re making you an Acting Lieutenant. You’re young and untried as yet, but under good Officers like Captain Carr and Lieutenant Drake we’re sure you’ll learn and turn into a fine Officer.

  “Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now, a word in confidence. I feel certain we will stay as a battalion and be sent into action and who knows, eventually perhaps we’ll get a number and be granted Colours. Then, an Ensign, indeed, is what you’ll be!”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  “Ah, right, that’s fine. Now, cut along.”

  Rushby saluted, which was returned, and then he scuttled off to his quarters.

  Lacey and O’Hare had debated long over which Officers to which Companies. O’Hare had argued that experience in the field should take absolute priority and had argued for the veteran Heaviside to be given the Grenadiers. However, Lacey knew that he had to be politic. Carravoy had been a Gazetted Captain for longer than anyone; even though solely in the Militia, he had to be given some measure of seniority. Besides, the Grenadiers were a strong Company, with a strong leavening from the 9th, they would take care of him as much as he would them. D’Villiers was a different case. Although an aristocrat and from a family known to Lacey, he judged him a poor Officer who should be placed where he could do little harm. In a line Company under the experienced Heaviside, seemed the best compromise. Both had agreed; Carr and Drake were perfect for the Lights.

  Rushby had exited the door by the Colonel’s Office and took himself across the Parade Ground, just close enough to interrupt Sergeant Major Gilbey, who had to halt his address of the Recruit Company to perform the required salute. This done, he continued.

  “Thee’s been training, now, just on two month, and we feels that we knows enough about thee to put thee into the company that can make the best use of tha’ talents, such as they are. This marks the end of tha’ first round of training and now thee can receive tha’ red jacket and grey trousers, for we finds thee worthy of the title “Redcoat in th’King’s Army. If ah calls tha’ name, thee can fall out, then take th’sen over to t’stores and get a jacket and the shako that thee should have. Grenadiers and Light Company have shoulder wings on their jackets. If we thinks thee worthy for a Grenadier, thee gets a shako with a white plume and a grenade badge. Roberts, Tiley, and Hughes. Fall out and get tha’selves over t’stores. Tha’s Grenadiers.”

  He paused whilst the commotion from leaving the ranks subsided.

  “If we thinks thee worthy of the Light Company, with tha’ red jacket, with wings an’ all, thee gets a shako with a green plume and a hunting horn badge. Wilkins, Pike, Garwood, and Davey. Fall out. Tha’s Light Company.”

  The four took themselves out of the ranks and walked towards the entrance to the stores, in time to see the last “Grenadier” enter the door. They began talking, Garwood first.

  “What’s “Light Company” all about? What’s the difference?”

  A pause, none could really answer, but Davey gave what he knew.

  “We’re supposed to be fit, brainy, and good shots.”

  All laughed. Davey continued.

  “And from what I’ve been told, we’re often the first in, so we gets first go at the plunder.”

  Joe Pike took it up.

  “First in where?”

  “Well, anywhere. Town, village, house, hilltop. Anywhere.”

  Garwood replied.

  “I’ve heard it means dodging about between the armies. Sharpshooting like. Can’t say as that appeals.”

  Wilkins finished the exchange.

  “First go at plunder sounds best to me.”

  They had reached the stores and entered, to be greeted by Sleightman.

  “Light Company?’

  All nodded. He shouted back into the depths of the stores.

  “Four green plumes.”

  The shakoes appeared in the grimy hands of a Storeman, held by the chinstraps, who then gauged them for jacket size and these also appeared. The same did not seem to apply to the grey trousers, either “long or short”. Long seemed to be the size in fashion. Walking back to their barrack rooms they heard Gilbey finishing reading the lists of names with Company numbers. He then sent the parade, by ranks, over to form line at the stores door.

  Joe Pike, with all haste, soon returned to his barrack room and sat at their table with the Light Company shako placed before him. His first act was to smooth up the green plume, and then shine the hunting horn badge with his sleeve. Then try it on.

  “Light Company, Tom. Just like you.”

  “That’s fine, boy. Have you made a Will?”

  Nelly Nicholls had noticed the bright face of Joe Pike enter the room, she saw the green plume and was now stood close.

  “You shut your gob, Tom Miles, you miserable bugger! The lad’s pleased and I be pleased for him. B’ain’t no point, as I see it, you spreading your misery no further than ‘tis needed.”

  She turned to Joe and placed a huge, red, motherly hand upon his shoulder.

  “I’m pleased for ‘ee, Joe. I wish thee well. My first husband was in the Lights, and we did well out of it, till he got his head blowed off somewhere in Holland. But you take no notice of this miserable tripehound!”

  She delivered one last withering scowl in the direction of Tom Miles, and took herself back to her family. However, half her family, the two girls, were sat at the table gazing in adoration of the elevated Joe. Tom turned to him, but there wa
s no anger in his voice

  “All right, boy, let’s see to your jacket. You’ve now got a new set of buttons to polish.”

  Joe obeyed and went to fetch the brickdust.

  At the same time, Percival Sedgwicke was returning to his place in his barrack room. Davey saw the misery in his face.

  “What ails thee, Parson? What company?”

  “Three.”

  Davey was busy polishing his new buttons, but the Parson was as depressed as ever he saw him. He had no ambitions for Lights nor Grenadiers, but his being given to a Line Company had come as a new and singular reminder, in some ways worse than those before, that he was now no more than what upper society would term as “a common soldier”. He genuinely was, now, just a figure in a rank, “uniform” in his uniform. His days of status, deference, and comfortable living were now as remote as the Court of an Archbishop. When once he could have counted on his name being embossed onto the record of the incumbents of a Parish Church, to remain there for evermore, now he was the practically anonymous Private Sedgwicke, Number Three Company. At his death, his name would be merely scratched through. He slumped in his corner, seized his Bible and held it closed to his forehead. He remained thus for some time. Davey let him be.

  oOo

  The year was approaching it’s close, and this meant the festival that all could look forward to. The children could be heard chanting as they danced around, meeting their partner’s hands with their own;

  “Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.

  Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.

  If you haven’t got a penny, a farthing will do.

  If you haven’t got that, well God bless you.”

  The women and children were improvising decorations, holly and ivy and such scraps of coloured bunting as could be found. Three groups of children were re-painting wooden decorations, that had been produced from some family possessions, and would form a Nativity. Some new figures that would add to the Nativity needed to be painted; a shepherd, a donkey, and a wise man. Two produced by Tom Miles, one by Joe Pike. Tom had placed his two before the inevitable organiser of the festivities, Nelly Nicholls, who had greeted the gift with her usual hostile tone when dealing with Tom Miles, but perhaps the tone of the greeting was not quite so belligerent.

  “Well, thankee for that, Tom Miles. Week of wet Mondays you may be, but you has the knack when it comes to carving.”

  Tom had glowered back, but nevertheless, it was plain that the acid between them was significantly diluted, at least for the festive season. Joe Pike’s effort, the wise man, and of a significantly lesser quality than Tom’s, had been greeted with effusive praise and thanks, for which Tom blamed Nelly rather than Joe. The truce held and day by day, the cheer in the barracks grew as all looked forward to the two days of Christmas.

  With less communal cheer, but with more opulence, preparations moved forward within the Officer’s Mess, only here the work was undertaken not by the occupants, but by Mess Room Orderlies. Their labour had been halted for the Officer’s Luncheon and, whilst this was being eaten, the conversation was of leisure activities that would occupy them over Christmas leave. Orders were that Officers were to lodge close by the barracks, but there would be at least four days of idleness that could be taken advantage of. Carravoy and D’Villiers were discussing the same across the table, Carravoy making the suggestions.

  “I have an invitation to a local Hunt, D’Villiers, the Blackdown. How do you feel about that? Is your horse up to it?”

  “My horse is most certainly up to it, and I do accept. Is it a social hunt, anyone of note?”

  “Why, local gentry, no more I feel sure, but it could be amusing. A ride to hounds would do us both the world of good.”

  “Agreed. I’ll send for my hunting togs.”

  Carr and Drake were also discussing plans for Christmas, but with less volume and less publicly.

  “Any plans for Christmas, Nat? Are your family near?”

  “Yes, they are, at least enough to send over some Christmas cheer, but I have no plans, other than Carols with the local choir.”

  “Carols in a choir! Really? I had no notion that you were in any way musical.”

  “Why yes, and there’s a certain party there who insists on my attendance.”

  “And she’s young and pretty, of course.”

  “I think so, but what of your musical talents?”

  “Well, I’ve been known to manage a few notes in the lower registers. Not exactly Basso Profundo, but I can get down there, or thereabouts.”

  “In that case, you are exactly the man we need, women bass singers, surprisingly, being somewhat rare. Do come. Can you read music?”

  “Yes, enough to get by.”

  “Rehearsal this Wednesday evening, tomorrow, and I can recommend the post vocal refreshments.”

  “Wednesday evenings, eh, with a pretty maid involved. That explains your regular disappearance from our lowly lodging on that particular time of the week, but yes, I’ll come along. Pleased to.”

  Drake turned his attention to Ensign Rushby, at his place at the end of the table, drinking his coffee, but not taking part in any conversation. Instead he was turning the leaves of a large manuscript, such as artists use.

  “Is that a sketchbook, Barnaby? May I take a look?”

  “Yes. Well, no. It’s just a few doodles, really. You know, when the mood takes I like to spoil a good piece of paper.

  Both Carr and Drake laughed. Drake took it up.

  “Come now, Barnaby, we are all in the same Company now, the much vaunted Lights. We can have no secrets between each other. Slide it over, I pray.”

  The book was closed and nervously pushed within reach of Drake. Drake placed his hand on the cover and drew it towards him, then placed the book between himself and Carr. Carr was in the best position to open the heavy cover and he did so. The result caused both to take a sharp intake of breath and Carr continued to turn the leaves, turn and turn for some time. The contents were astonishing, mere pencil drawings they were, and there was a huge variety of subject matter, but each strongly conveyed the mood of the moment; the tranquillity of a riverside, the cheerlessness of cattle out on the moor, the misery of a women returning from the same, bent almost double with a burden of firewood. But most striking was the life and verve in the portraits of members of the battalion, some Officers, some NCO’s and some rankers, some in a military setting, others plainly at their ease, but all came off the page with their lifelike quality.

  Carr looked at Drake and both shared a look of astonishment.

  “My word, Barnaby, but these are damned good. Have you had lessons or something? These are absolutely excellent. You’d agree, Drake?”

  “I most certainly would. Can you do oils, Barnaby? If you can, there’s a career waiting for you, after the army. How often do you get out, mostly local, yes?”

  “Yes, mostly local. I hope to get out into some of the local villages this Christmas. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I’m sure you are, if the result is such as this. Wish I had such a talent. Wonderful work, Barnaby. Allow us to see the results of your work post Christmas.”

  “Yes Sir. I will.”

  oOo

  Wednesday evening came, cold, with soaking rain slanting off the moor, carried to them on a wayward and gusting wind. Carr and Drake, both in long greatcoats with collars turned up to overlap their glistening black shakoes, strode in step up the long garden path to confront the imposing front door; panels and studding both of medieval proportions. Carr felt, rather than saw, the heavy stonework stretching upwards and above, into the rainy dark, as Drake lifted the heavy knocker and allowed it to fall, the resultant sound appropriately resembled that of an medieval battering ram.

  “The residence of Lady Constance Fynings. A nice old dear, who likes choral music, but, more importantly, keeps a very good table.”

  The door was opened by a maid of indeterminate age, who quickly and gratefull
y closed the door upon the two Officers crossing the threshold. Drake addressed her as she took their damp greatcoats.

  “Are we in the usual place?”

  “Yes, Sir. The front drawing room.”

  “This way, Henry,” and Drake strode forward to enter a well lit corridor off to the right. The light from many candles reflected off the polished dark oak panels on the wall, from the glass of many display cabinets and the equally polished light oak flooring. Once in the corridor, choral singing reached their ears.

  “Seems we’re a bit late, Henry,” and he turned the gleaming brass handle of an ornate, panelled door to reveal a brightly lit room containing above 30 people of a variety of ages and gender, but, Carr noted with relief, none in military uniform. On their entrance, the singing stopped.

  “Evening, Constance. Sorry we’re late, but I’ve brought reinforcements for the bass section. May I introduce Captain Henry Carr? Henry, this is Lady Constance Fynings.”

  Carr stepped forward and saluted, rather than bowed.

  “Your servant, Ma’am.”

  This was delivered in the direction of a late middle-aged, but evidently noble and definitely well dressed woman who stood before the assembly. Her hands were held together at the waist of a well tailored grey satin dress, and she evidently occupied the role of the Musical Director. Her countenance did not convey approval.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain Carr, and yes, Nathaniel, you are late, but I forgive you on this occasion, especially as you have brought us another member. Please add yourself to the right of the choir, Captain Carr, that’s your left, their right.”

  Carr smiled and replied, “Yes Ma’am,” as he took his place. He had noticed the smiles and grins that greeted Drake’s entrance, but, unmistakably, the face of one particularly pretty member of the soprano end of the choir had lit up appreciably, not least of the light coming from a long and unblinking gaze in Drake’s direction. As Drake took his place, his last act was to meet her affectionate gaze delivered to him as she leaned forward out of the line.