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

by Martin McDowell

  “You five, fire outside. Make them ride far out. Lieutenant Rushby, send pistol fire around the sides of this window.”

  He looked for a tall soldier, and found one.

  “Saunders. Get yourself hoisted up and look over the wall from time to time. Choose a different place each time, but tell us where the French are.”

  The soldier reported and, with Drake joining Rushby, both Officers sent pistol fire down and along the outside of the wall. With them firing blind, how effective it was couldn’t be seen, but heavy stones heaved over the top of the wall added to the defence of this one point where the French could get close, and the huge Saunders reported no serious gathering of French building an assault.

  Miles, Pike and Davey were outside, crouching behind the recently built parapet. They had added to the height and made two firing positions. Davey had his own, whilst Pike and Miles took turns at the other. Davey was concentrating on cuirassiers firing around a gate post, but Pike was at his place, waiting.

  “Can you see any, John? They seems a bit more scarce, or are they just keeping their heads down more?”

  “Can’t tell, Joe. Bullets is still comin’ in, so they’m firing from somewhere. So, don’t ease off, and don’t show too much of yourself.”

  His rifle went off and a cuirassier disappeared.

  “I reckon that did him a bit of no good.”

  He drank some water and began reloading. Miles had been reloaded for some time and was waiting for Pike to fire, but with no impatience. He knew they were holding their ground, no need for two to fire when there wasn’t a target for one.

  “I’ll tell thee one thing, I reckon these are the cavalry bastards as did for that village. At least from the same Regiment. We’re holding them off, and ‘tis them as is getting’ killed. I’m happy to stay here for a while and see to the likes of a few more. I wish that they would come over that wall, then we’ll see who gets paid out.”

  The wounded were being attended to by Sergeant Fearnley, for both he and Ellis carried a basic medical kit. One of the wounded was serious, shot in the chest, but the other three would be walking wounded, the worst had a ball pass through the outside of his arm. Water and linen was the best he could do, but for now it was sufficient. Sensing movement, he looked around and was shocked to see Lieutenant Rushby with his left hand inside his jacket, up to his right shoulder. He was white with shock and unsteady on his feet.

  “Sit down, Sir, and let me take a look.”

  Fearnley carefully removed Rushby’s jacket and immediately saw that there was no exit wound, but that could be both good and bad. The removal of the shirt revealed the wound. It was certainly made by a bullet.

  “Where can you feel the hurt, Sir? Has it gone inside, like?”

  Rushby took a deep breath and swallowed.

  “It feels all close to the surface, but it aches through and through.”

  “All right, Sir. I’m going to have a look. Bite on this.”

  He placed a short length of wood, already pitted from previous teeth marks, into Rushby’s mouth. A bullet or dislodged stone smacked into the wall above them and buzzed elsewhere.

  “I need to see if I can feel it, Sir. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

  He probed with the thin knife and Rushby gave a stifled scream and clenched his fists hard. Tears emerged from between his clenched eyelids. Soon Fearnley felt what he hoped he’d find.

  “Whatever it is, it’s not too far down, Sir. With a bit of pushing aside, I can probably see it, even. We should try to get it out, Sir, if you’re willing?”

  Rushby nodded and Fearnley smiled back, himself twice the age of the young Ensign.

  “That’s it, Sir. It won’t be too bad. You two,” he gestured to two unoccupied soldiers, “take his arms, and hold him steady, push him back against the wall. It’s going to hurt and so he’s going to move, or try.”

  With no small skill, using the knife and some basic forceps, Fearnley eased open the wound and peered in. Another soldier mopped the blood. Rushby strained against the hands that held him and screamed again, as much as the wooden gag would let him. Fearnley continued to work and for over an agonizing minute, continued to probe. A sigh and a grin spoke of his success and a bloody object was held up within the forceps.

  “It’s a ball alright, Sir, but I’d say you was lucky. It’s all out of shape. It must have hit the wall somewhere then went on to you. That took the force out of it, and it took nothing of your shirt in with it, Sir. That’s good. I’ll just clean you up and put a drop of rum in there, like I’ve been told. I don’t understand why, but ‘tis what you do, and I do know it’ll sting. But I’m afraid it’s not over, it’ll need stitches.”

  “That can wait. Rum for now, then see to the others.”

  Fearnley was not wrong and Rushby winced as the rum was trickled in, but then grinned. He was relieved and held up the cleaned ball in the fingers of his left hand for examination, noticing that it had been flattened over at least half its surface. He took a drink of water from one of the two soldiers and grinned again.

  “My thanks to you all, especially to you Sergeant. I know nothing of these things, but I’d say that was a fine piece of work.”

  Drake came to make his enquiries and Rushby held up the ball.

  “Ricochet. I was lucky. How goes it outside?”

  “Oh, we’re holding them off, and I’d say they’re the one’s suffering. There’s quite a few lying outside, but there’s a lot of them still and we’re bunged up in here. It’s stalemate. But you rest, and don’t worry.”

  At that moment there came three clear notes from a bugle.

  “What’s that? Theirs or ours?”

  Fearnley answered.

  “Theirs Sir. That’s no bugle call that I’ve ever heard.”

  Drake ducked along the wall to reach Carr.

  “What’s happening Henry? Does that mean anything? Are they reinforced?”

  “Can’t tell yet. But they’re still circling around with their damned pistols and we’re still taking fire from the walls outside.”

  But over the next few minutes the fire slackened and then ceased. Carr peered through one of the crude embrasures. He could see nothing. He called to his men.

  “Any of you. Can you still see any of them?”

  No reply, so he gingerly raised his head, continuously peering around. Looking over the wall, on the Catanzarro side, he saw that the French were forming up, well out of range, and heaving their wounded onto the several spare horses.

  “Rifles up. Maximum range. Keep firing.”

  Those with rifles re-opened fire on the clear target, but no more French fell. They were, it was now certain, out of range.

  “You can stand up, lads, and take a look. We’ve fought them off.”

  However, inside himself he knew the main reason. Casualties were one thing, losing touch with the main army was another, but what came next surprised even Carr.

  “He’s got a bloody nerve!”

  A young French Officer, highly idealistic, had ridden slightly in their direction and was holding his sword up in salute to acknowledge their defence, both brave and soldierly. Carr sprang up onto the wall, half withdrew his own sword and them slammed it back into its scabbard. Two or three of his men shouted “Catanzarro” at the top of their lungs to be joined by others, and others vigorously gestured the traditional English “V” sign in the Officer’s direction. The main body of cavalry were on their way and the Officer realised that no honourable rejoinder would be replied and so he, also, sheathed his sword and turned his horse away to canter after his command.

  “Damn him and every Frog bastard that he rides with.”

  Rushby had been looking over the wall.

  “It may not have been this Regiment, Sir.”

  “They’re from the same damn army, aren’t they?”

  Carr descended from the wall. He turned to Drake.

  “How many dead?”

  “Three, Sir.”


  “Get them buried. And badly wounded, can’t walk?”

  “Three again, Sir.”

  “Send out some men. Try to get some loose horses to carry them. Not all will have gone off with the French. We stay here until sunset. I’m not risking them turning around and hoping to catch us out on the open road. Tell the men to rest and eat. We’re marching through the night. How’s Rushby?”

  “I bit shook up, but recovering.”

  Carr nodded.”

  “Right. Get things done.”

  Some men went out and did indeed return with horses, four not three, two with blood on their necks and saddles. Their saddle blankets were a rich dark green, edged with gold, embroidered with a gold “N” and “33‘eme C”. Carr seized the blanket’s corner and raised it up.

  “33rd Cuirassiers, eh? That’s a number I’ll damn well remember.”

  oOo

  General Stuart stood by his horses head, alternately stroking his neck and feeding him apples, specifically carried from England, each being handed to him by a servant as and when required. He was in a most excellent mood, the fact of his victory against the much vaunted French had thoroughly sunk in and, between apples and pats, he regarded his passing army. His Staff, an inevitable accompaniment, sat astride their horses and also watched the men progressing along the pale sand and chalk road that led South to Monteleone, Scilla and Reggio. Stuart could hear from the comments behind him that his Staff shared his own good opinion, that the men looked in good heart, Appearance notwithstanding, they were sunburnt and dusty, and undressed with jackets and shakoes slung over packs, but all had the bearing of men victorious and it showed, they were upright and talkative, sharing banter back and forth between the ranks. He didn’t expect marching in step, but they were marching with purpose, at a good pace. Optimism grew further within him that they could soon take the towns between themselves and Scilla and, by taking advantage of low French morale after their unexpected defeat; they could capture the fortress at Scilla and complete the campaign with the capture of all facilities that would enable the French to invade Sicily.

  Deakin and Halfway were in their usual place in their marching column, with Gibney, as usual in his place outside the ranks, marched alongside. Their uniforms, once bright red, were now covered with chalk dust, so their appearance now matched the pink of the Swiss. Those of the Swiss, from the same dust, had turned to a subtle shade of grey. Halfway was closest to Gibney.

  “How come we’n marching South, Sar’ Major, away from them Frogs that we just saw off. Don’t we need to go after ‘em?”

  “Well now, Corporal, bein’ as I’m not privileged to that kind of information, there’s not too much I can say, but I do know that there’s French holed up in towns and villages this way, and, I suppose, they has to be dealt with first. ‘Sides, do I take it that thee’s itchin’ for another fight, seein’ as we just ‘ad such a bad one, day ‘fore yesterday?”

  “No, Sar’ Major, no lover of battles, me. Just curious. Like most, I likes to have some idea of what’s goin’ on. ‘Specially as we’m in the land of the enemy.”

  Deakin joined in.

  “Land of the enemy this may be, but the civilian part of it is much to my liking. They’n more than happy to see us. I’ve a haversack full of good bread and some kind of pie, and fruit, and a bottle besides. But speakin’ of the fruit, what I got off ‘em is a bit of a mystery.”

  He fished one out from the depths of his haversack. It was round, red, and orange, but no kind of orange. It was hard. He turned to the soldier on his left.

  “Here, pass that along to Captain Heaviside. I’ve got plenty. Let him have a look at it. He might know what ‘tis.”

  The fruit was passed along and Heaviside pronounced judgment.

  “It’s a pomegranate. You eat the seeds, nothing else, they’re surrounded by a kind of jelly. Pick them out; you’ll find it quite pleasant. “And ye shall eat the fat of the land. Genesis, chapter 45, verse 18.”

  “Yes, Sir. That’s a comfort. Now we know. Pomegranate.”

  He produced two more.

  “Here y’are Toby. One for you and one for Gibney.”

  The fruit was accepted and disappeared into already weighty haversacks, but their mood was good. The sun was fierce, as always, but a steady sea breeze kept them at least merely warm and blew away inland the dust from the thousands of marching feet. They had passed through no town, nor even a village, but every farm and hamlet they met had greeted them well and supplied them with food, wine, and water. They approached another collection of small houses and the people were at their doors and fences, cheering and waving, with water buckets set on a plank table and a pile of oranges. In front men were falling out to refill canteens and take an orange, as if they didn’t already have enough. Halfway made the observation.

  “I d’reckon, Jed, that these people is more happy to see us than any Irish we saw, when we was in the 9th. It’s like we was Jesus Christ in a redcoat the way they do cheer and shout at our passing. We never saw the likes in Ireland.”

  “No argument there, Toby. But in Ireland we’m the occupying power. I daresay that if the French were to march in there to kick us out, like we’m kicking the French out of here, then them Irish would cheer them just the same. ‘Tis all about whose got their boot on your neck and whose takin’ it off.”

  “You reckon we’m as bad to the Irish, as the French have been to this lot. I’m hearin’ wicked tales about what they does to get food out of these people. You can’t say we’m as bad as that.”

  “No, but any injustice is felt, large or small. If you’m put upon, you thanks the one’s that takes it away, or you should. Anyhow, look, it’s fallout time. Let’s find some shade, get some sleep.”

  At the tail end of the 5th, Sedgwick was suffering in the heat. A red rash was building around his wrists and neck, where his skin met his cuff and collar. A state of undress was wholly unacceptable to him, that being to remove his jacket and besport himself in his shirtsleeves, but this was his state now, with a damp rag about his neck that did ease the irritation. However, back under the shade of the supply wagon, with the sea breeze supplying air that was bearably warm, he did feel a modicum of greater comfort. But he suffered also inside, spiritually. On dry land he had hoped to be able to often frequent a proper place of worship, but he had visited two and found them wholly distasteful; he’d been greatly affronted by the pomp and the eye searing colour and opulence, this even in the lowliest, along with the all pervading stench of incense. Here was Popery writ large, much too large for his Low Church training and persuasion and so each was no place for devotion; instead a pained, but silent rehearsal of a possible argument between himself and the incumbent Priest, were he there and could speak English.

  Also, a debate had continued intermittently within himself over approaching Captain Heaviside, that obvious and self-ordained Man of God, to investigate the possibility of the two forming a Bible Group or some such Prayer Circle. However, counter to that, it was beginning to set itself within him, that they were both, now, several classes apart. Nevertheless, today saw Sedgwick with spirits higher than usual. On the day of battle, had he not carried out his duty to carry ammunition to the firing line, had he not been under fire himself, and had he not been singled out, by the base and common soldiery, to conduct the service at the burial of one of their number? Today was one of Percival Sedgwicke’s better days.

  If Percival Sedgwicke’s spirits were higher than typical, those of D’Villiers and Carravoy were lower that usual. Each realized that they had almost “funked it”, as expressed in their terminology, in the recent conflict. The Grenadier Company had been returned to the 5th Provisionals and, when came a fallout from the march, D’Villiers had taken himself away from the 3rd Company with its lugubrious and pious Captain and sought Carravoy amongst his Grenadiers, but conversation passed between them but little. In his mind, D’Villiers again ran through a conversation with his Sergeant the day after the battle.

&n
bsp; “The lads are proud of you, Sir.”

  He had been shocked.

  “How so?”

  “Because you stood out front, Sir, daring the French. You set a good example, Sir.”

  But this brought little comfort. He knew why he had “stood out front”; he had been frozen with fear, which gnawed deeply at his own self-esteem.

  Carravoy also had his own devils. He had lied about the extent of Carr’s help at the farmhouse, and he had been exposed to Carr over it, he had been sworn at by his Commanding Officer and, finally, he knew the reason why he had remained amongst the Grenadiers, when desperation was irresistible within him. They, but ranking soldiers, had stood firm and calm, needing no example from him, rather the reverse, whilst he was panicked and terrified. Each would have liked to confide in the other, but D’Villiers was much Carravoy’s junior, and confessing to fear in that measure would be very much “bad form” and self-demeaning. So each sat, saying little, other than conjecture on the next few days.

  O’Hare was passing and saw both, including the black cloud that hung above them.

  “How now boys. You two look as though you came for a wedding and found a funeral!”

  The two began to get to their feet.

  “Ha, no. Don’t get up. Don’t get up.”

  He stood and regarded both for a short while, giving them time to look up at him, then back down in embarrassment.”