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

by Martin McDowell

  His absence was only discovered with the dawn, his kit left behind, bar the greatcoat, providing clear testimony to the fact that an escape was intended and that it had been successful. Carravoy was the Captain of Grenadiers and Colonel Lacey called him to his tent for an explanation, but none could he give. He had not been in camp. Why had Tiley not been watched or even tethered? No answer; no one had thought of it. Lacey did not hide his displeasure at so valuable a man, a Grenadier, being so easily lost. Carravoy was left in no doubt that he was responsible and such a dereliction must not occur again. Carravoy left the tent, smarting and angry.

  oOo

  If there was a green that spoke of England, it was the Dorset green of the Spring of 1806. The elder bushes were long out, wasting no growing time, but the pure new green of the bursting chestnut, beech, and elm trees along the way did not pass unnoticed by any in that column that made it’s way, march by march, down to the sea at Weymouth. Nor the quintessential Dorset villages, colours bright in the clear sunshine, mothers and daughters stood in doorways, white aprons showing bright from the shade, children laughing and cheering, keeping step and old men, some old soldiers, who could remember Woolfe and the Plains of Abraham, or even the perilous march forward at Minden. Labourers waved from the barns and pastures beyond the road and feelings were mixed within many in the ranks, as they thought of those in the fields with a life of little danger, but each day one of drudging labour that did little more than keep body and soul united. Themselves, now with the adventurous and varied life of a soldier, but marching to who knew what perils.

  Dorchester was the last major town they passed through and those citizens that were about their early morning business and were near enough, came to the roadside to cheer. On then, out onto the straight Roman road that led down to the sea, the low ramparts on the high hill of Maiden Castle provided passing interest for many, but for more the sight of the sea through the valley beyond held their attention fixed. Just before the port of Weymouth, the column swung off the road and onto the downs to make their final camp. Lacey had suffered one desertion, there was not going to be another. Guards were to be paired and regularly changed, Officers were expected to remain in camp and be assiduous with their rounds. The camp quickly spread across the rolling green upland and all settled to their business, be it repairing the damage of four days marching, or writing last letters home. The latter occupied both Drake and Carr, but whilst words came easily to Drake, not so to Carr, letter writing being consistently outside of his experience. He sat with the medallion in front of him, hoping for more inspiration than the simple “miss you and will be thinking of you”.

  “Do you think I should say that her medallion is big enough to stop a bullet? Keep me safe that way?”

  “Absolutely and completely not! Of all that is dunce and dunderhead. Dangers are not to be mentioned, ever. Tell her about the last time you saw her, what you thought and felt, lots of it. Let it go at that. Close early, tell her that duty calls. Stop a bullet! I don’t know where the poet lies in you, Henry, but it’s deep, deep, down.”

  He paused, movement at the camp entrance caught his eye.

  “Developments! The Navy has arrived, on horseback. I think things could be moving, perhaps quickly.”

  Two Naval Officers had arrived, one with the epaulettes of a Royal Navy Captain, the other in more plain garb, but also Navy colours. Carr and Drake followed their route through the camp; plainly they were being conducted to the tent of Colonel Lacey. They entered and the tent flap closed. Drake drew the conclusion.

  “Orders soon, I’ll not be surprised.”

  He was not wrong. Within an hour Lacey called Captains and Majors to his tent. Carr arrived at the tent anxious for what Lacey had to tell them.

  “Gentlemen, we sail on the night tide, if this wind holds. We embark at night. Napoleon has spies everywhere and our escort, Captain Fallway, does not want anyone to see which way we go, once in the Channel and past Portland. The French have fast, well armed Privateers that range up and down their coast and we have only HMS Ipheion as protection, a two masted brig, all that can be spared. We will be in three ships, the largest, the Bidewell, will hold the Grenadiers, the Light, and Companies One, Two and Three. The Llewellyn, will hold Companies Four, Five, and Six. The last the Tansy, will hold Seven and Eight Companies, our stores, that are being loaded as we speak, and the camp followers. See that your men are fed and paraded at sunset. Thank you, Gentlemen, that will be all.”

  Carr returned and spread the word, to Drake, Rushby, and his Sergeants. They were to eat at four, parade at six. Ellis spoke the question all wanted to ask.

  “Do you know where, Sir?”

  “No Sergeant. I suspect that the Colonel does, but he’s not telling anyone. The French have spies here, we can be certain, and would give anything to know our destination. Even just to know if we are going up or down Channel. So, we have our orders. We will be marching soon after six.”

  Soon Ration Call was heard and soon after that the sights and smells of cooking, campaign food, boiled salt beef, dried peas and biscuit. As the men ate and the afternoon waned into evening, the Officers took the chance to bid farewell to their families, those that had decided to accompany them down to embarkation and were dismayed at the speed with which they would be leaving, not even one more day, nor even half a day. Padraigh O’Hare was one such and left the camp to see his family safe into an Inn, before returning back to the camp. On his return, clearly heavy spirited and saddened, the Officer on duty at the camp gate happened to be Captain Carr.

  “I trust you left them all well, Sir, and they are not too downhearted.”

  “Thank you, Captain Carr. Yes, I left them well, although somewhat down, but only to be expected. But having said that, I’ve been away before, they all know how it happens, and it’s not for ever.”

  “Yes, Sir. Will they take ship to Ireland or cross country?”

  “Cross country, to be sure. My wife is not a good sailor, and our home is up North. A short voyage from Liverpool is the best she can manage. I want them at sea as brief a time as possible. As the Colonel said; French Privateers!”

  “Yes Sir, sailing across, that far up the Irish Sea will make them as safe as can be hoped.”

  “Yes, Captain. I’m sure you’re right. Now, let’s all see to our business.”

  oOo

  The parade formed in the dying light, the offshore wind, so desired by departing Captains, played with the shako plumes above their heads and the new grass at their feet. The Light Company was second to the Grenadiers and Carr paced up and down before his men, impatient for why he knew not, and his anxiety was matched by all around him. He came up to Rushby and found him, with a small knife, packing soil into a small box, much like a snuffbox.

  “What are you about, Barnaby?”

  “I, well, just wanted to take a little bit of the home country with me, Sir. You know Sir, something to look at whilst we’re away. A bit of nonsense, really.”

  “No, Barnaby, not nonsense at all. But I’m anxious that you take that sketchbook of yours. I hope you are taking one with plenty of spare capacity. You’re sure to see much that you’d like to record. We’ll all want to see the results, when we get back.”

  “Yes Sir. I will be taking my sketchbook, but returning to this, Sir,” indicating the soil in the dying light, “if the worst does happen, you’ll see that this goes in with me, Sir, won’t you?”

  “Enough of all that, Barnaby. You’ll be looking at that box when you’re a retired General, but, yes, of course, be assured, I’ll make sure.”

  Orders were resounding around the camp and the Grenadiers had faced left. Soon they marched out and Carr repeated the orders to his own command. In no time at all, the whole battalion was marching downhill along the main turnpike into Weymouth. Such civilians as were out, mostly homeward labourers, stood and watched, but in silence and also in homage, perhaps? They knew the time they lived in and it took little imagination to realise th
at many of the men they watched marching past, of the same clay as themselves, would remain where they were destined for, and not see England again. They followed them with their eyes as the column of common soldiers marched to the quayside towards the three sets of masts silhouetted against the last dying light.

  As they progressed along the quayside, Carr studied the names embossed beneath the wide cabin windows of each ship as their sterns loomed up beneath the thick latticework of rigging, spars and masts. Tansy, Llewellyn, Bidewell, their ship was the last. The Grenadiers were already aboard and filing down the several hatches to their berths below. Carr held his men back until told to come aboard and he led the way, following the seaman and taking his men along dimly lit companionways, which seemed to have every conceivable obstacle built into them to hamper their progress without totally halting it; low beams, buttresses, steep ladders, and tight turns. Eventually, in what seemed the deepest bowels of the ship, their place was indicated and Carr watched the men take a hammock from a pile and claim their places. He was there to check the quality of their quarters, also to halt any squabbles and arguments, but he was very satisfied that none arose. The Bidewell had been built as a troop transport and he left them arranging their equipment on the many hooks and pegs, the experienced telling the inexperienced to “keep your kit off the deck”.

  The embarkation was rapid; what had earlier been a thronged and busy quay now held just the few of the Officer’s families who had followed in their coaches to wave their last goodbyes. Carr, Drake, and Rushby, content that their men were safely lodged below, leaned on the side of the ship watching the last events they would see in England for some time. Mostly it was last conversations, shouted up and down, Major O’Hare and his family being the main contributors. Mrs O’Hare, whom the three saw for the first time, was clearly a handsome woman, well dressed and above average height, but they could see little of her face behind the white handkerchief held permanently to her weeping eyes. The other events told of imminent departure, mooring lines were being loosened along the quayside of all three ships and the activities on each forecastle confirmed that towing lines were being attached to the longboats of each vessel, so that each could be eased out of the harbour to pick up the fortuitous North wind.

  The moorings were loosened and fell away into the inky black water to be retrieved in an instant by the skilled efforts of the sailors. The gap between the tumblehome of the Bidewell and the quayside grew and the features on the quay began to fall back astern, all that kept pace were the final few members of the families on the quayside, anxious to prolong the send-off as much as possible. Eventually the end of the quay came and this gap also grew so that faces could no longer be discerned in the dark, just the last shaking of white, tear damp handkerchiefs. The ships passed across and beyond the lights on the high peak of Portland Bill and then sail could safely to be set for the open sea to take them South, down to The Channel proper. The longboats were recovered and all felt the ship heel to the pressure of the wind on the spread canvas and after came the motion of the sea. The Ipheion was waiting in the bay and she became more discernable, as her canvas, pale but just visible in the dark, appeared out in the bay above her riding lights. The dark bulk of Portland Bill passed to starboard and all Officers took whatever vantage points offered themselves to look at the disappearing lights of Weymouth town. No one spoke.

  A French agent, high on the downs of their recent camp, sat a fast horse, secure in the dark, and watched the lights of the four vessels converge together as the distance increased. He waited for them to make their turn, either up or down Channel, but then he cursed. At a signal gun all lights went out together and out in the Channel, beyond the Bill, was nought but all concealing darkness.

  oOo

  “Shoot me!”

  “I will not. I have only one pistol and I am saving that for myself. Besides, Cecily would never speak to me again.”

  “Oh, this is death, how much more? This up and down and side to side, and the noise. The permanent creak and groan and rattle. When we get back, I’m transferring to the Militia and manning a well built fort. Can this get any worse, Carr, do you think? I don’t see how, I’ve never felt so bad.”

  Carr looked over at his companion, whose green complexion did nothing to reduce his own feeling of wretchedness. Drake had just returned from one of several visits to the leeward side of the ship and he was contemplating another of his own, but there were always at least 50 competing for places. He sat up from his cot, seized the door handle in both hands and thus anchored tried to convince himself that he felt better.

  “How’s Rushby?”

  “Absolutely fine. The scut’s up on deck, sketching if you please. Says he quite enjoys the “pitch and send” as the sailors call it. Oh God, excuse me, old fellow, but I feel I must return to the deck.”

  Drake took his exit, in a hurry. Carr groaned and again resumed his position, leaning his forehead against the door edge and staring at the deck between his wrists as the ship performed another reel and curtsy.

  Above them a meeting was in progress in the main cabin, Lacey, O’Hare, Captain Fallway and Captain Smallcombe, Commanding Officer of the Bidewell. The latter two looked at the two soldiers, trying to detect any mal-de-mer, but saw none. Fallway asked after their wellbeing.

  “Are you both coping? This is a wicked sea.”

  Lacey answered.

  “Yes, we are both well. We have both endured long sea voyages, and we know the correct manouevres.”

  The ship made another swerve and the decanter of Chablis, put there for refreshment, took on a life of its own as if by some ghostly hand and slid alarmingly across the polished table. With his left hand Lacey halted its progress and placed it in the fiddle of the serving table behind. His right was occupied with a bundle of oiled cloth, tied about with red ribbon, not yet undone because of the red wax seal that bound the knot together. Lacey quickly broke it and found the most important piece of paper, their orders and their destination. They confirmed their Naval orders to sail down Channel. He read the necessary himself then turned the paper around so that all could see. Their destination was Sicily; after a call at Gibraltar for supplies, their orders were to join the force at Messina under the command of Major General John Stuart. Lacey looked at those about him.

  “Gentlemen, I’m sure I do not need to tell you that this information must remain with us four only, even after our call at Gibraltar.”

  oOo

  Immediately after leaving harbour, the small convoy had quickly picked up the fast ebb tide off Portland Bill and, under easy canvas, they had made good progress down Channel until dawn, keeping both France and England down over the horizon. However, with the dawn, the wind backed to almost due West and blew strong against them, setting up a regular sea, equal waves, separated by equal distance. The ships had no choice but to tack diagonally across, starting a corkscrew motion of up to the crest and down, simultaneous with rolling side to side as they slanted down into a trough, or up and out of one. There was no change for three days and almost all the soldiers aboard were suffering in this, the worst sea of all for the unseaworthy.

  Joe Pike could barely move, sprawled mostly on the deck, shoulders and back propped up against the ship’s side. His eyes were closed with exhaustion and his head lolled forward over a jacket stained with vomit from days before. Tom Miles and Ned Deakin were bending over him.

  “Something’s got to be done, Ned. This boy’s not drunk nor eaten nothin’ since dawn on the first day. He could go from thirst, at this rate.”

  “You’re not wrong. This sea’s makin’ the worst passage I’ve known. Half the battalion’s fit for nuthin’. We needs to ease the feeling of a movin’ ship. Get him in his hammock, that’ll at least take away some of all this rollin’ and pitchin’. Here, Pat, Davey, give us a hand.”

  Joe’s hammock was slung between hooks and all four lifted his almost lifeless figure up and into it’s welcoming shape. Deakin gave his orders.


  “Now, Davey, you seems able to cope, and you too, Tom. Let it swing side to side, but try to hold it steady end to end. Now…..”

  He leaned over Joe and pulled up his own canteen, drawing water to wet the ailing Joe’s lips.

  “……. Joe. Can you hear me?”

  The water seemed to have revived him somewhat. He opened his eyes and gave a groan.

  “Joe. Take a drink of water. You must drink. Then, keep your eyes open and fixed on a point above you. You’ll feel more steady. As soon as you feels able, take a drink of water, often. That’s vital.”

  For the rest of that day, the four administered unto the desperately seasick Joe, but Deakin’s solution began to bear fruit. After a few hours, Joe did feel better and began to drink more regularly. The next night in his hammock held onto his progress and the next day their course turned South and the wind dropped and veered back to North West. The motion of the ships eased in the irregular sea and while not steady and still, to all aboard, after days of rolling and rising, by comparison the ships felt firm and stable. The ships held a permanent heel to larboard as the steady North Westerly came over the starboard quarter and soon all aboard began to feel new strength in their sea legs, as the convoy progressed on and into easy sailing in the Bay of Biscay under a late April sky.