“So, you both came through it? Hale and hearty, nothing left behind, neither blood nor bits?”
Both looked up and nodded.
“And you were damn near terrified from start to finish. Yes?”
Both now did look up, faces showing the shock of hearing the truth from this socially inferior, but deeply experienced Officer.
“Well now, let me tell youse. That’s just how it is for everyone, everyone of us, first time. And that was a bad one, make no mistake. No one has the nerves to cope first time, ‘specially that one, and stand up to it like it was nothing. So listen. You didn’t run. You didn’t disgrace yourselves. You just surprised yourselves about how damn scared you were. Well, as I’m now saying to youse both, that’s how it works, there’s nothing special about the pair of youse. So cheer up and call yourselves veterans.”
With that he left. Carravoy said nothing, he had other remaining worries, but D’Villiers managed a cheery “Thank you, Sir”, which was when the headache started and he began to shiver.
The orders were passing around to form up, but Toby Halfway was going through the same as D’Villiers was just starting.
“Jed. I don’t feel right. Hot and cold and a swaying head. Right now, the shivers. I got an ague of some sort, been comin’ on all mornin’. Do you think it’s that new fruit, pomme summat?”
Deakin looked at his friend and it stirred bad memories. He had seen this in the West Indies, long ago, but it remained vivid.
“Toby, do your joints hurt and perhaps your eyes, too?”
“That’s right, Jed, that’s comin’ on too.”
Deakin grew fearful. Swamp fever; and he remembered the foul, swampy ground they had inhabited before the battle. He unbuckled Halfway’s greatcoat from his pack.
“Now just sit back down, Toby, and wrap this round you. Here, Peters, get his kit off him and keep him still and warm until he feels hot. When he feels hot try to keep him cool. I’m going to find Captain Heaviside.”
He took himself off and found his Captain just closing his Bible and stowing it in his pack.
“Sir. It’s Corporal Halfway, Sir. I’m certain he’s got swamp fever, Sir, I saw it when I served in the West Indies and I had it myself.”
“You’re certain?”
“Not bein’ a medical man, not wholly certain, Sir, but he complains of exactly what I know swamp fever is made up of, Sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still in the shade, Sir, bein’ cared for by the lads.”
“I will pray for him.”
“Yes, Sir. Meanwhile, Sir…….”
“Meanwhile, Corporal, you see that he is cared for, and I will inform Colonel Lacey. Dismiss.”
Deakin knew that he was now required to come to the attention and he did so, then he saluted, then marched off.”
Heaviside was as good as his word and found both Colonel Lacey and Major O’Hare, Lacey just rising from his table to enable his servants to pack it away.
“Sir. I wish to report what I believe to be a case of swamp fever, Sir.”
Lacey looked at O’Hare. His expression worried.
“That’s six.”
Carravoy joined them.
“Sir. Lieutenant D’Villiers, Sir. He isn’t feeling at all well.”
“Right. Captain Heaviside. I want you to organise wagons for the sick. Empty as many as you need and give the supplies to the men to carry if they cannot be carried in the remaining wagons. Pass the word that the sick are to be taken back to be carried in them.”
Heaviside saluted and went off, leaving the three Officers together. Lacey looked at O’Hare.
“The other enemy, Padraigh, the one that takes no sides.”
O’Hare nodded. No reply was needed. Meanwhile, Heaviside was turning the world of Sedgwicke, Pearson and the other storemen upside down.
“I want as many empty wagons as you can put together. Cram the others full with what cannot be carried and send to the Captains of all Companies for men to carry what can be carried. Expect a number of sick men. Get it done at your best speed. Then expect another role for yourselves; that of medical men. We’ve been hit by swamp fever, so you’ll want plenty of drinking water and a strong preparedness to care for them.”
He turned to Pearson.
“I’m making you responsible, Sergeant. Very responsible. Clear?”
Pearson nodded and saluted, but Heaviside didn’t see. He was turning away, but Sedgwicke saw this as his chance.
“Captain, Sir. I was wondering if I may have a word, Sir. I think you may know that I’m………”
“Storeman! The word crisis is not unknown to you, I feel sure.”
“Yes, Sir, I mean no, Sir.”
“We are in the middle of one right now. See to your duties.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Heaviside turned away and almost collided with the Battalion Surgeon, hurrying back in accordance with Lacey’s orders.
“Sir, I’m fairly certain it’s swamp fever.”
“How do you know?”
“One of my men has had it in the past, Sir, and the symptoms match what happened to him.”
“Yes, thank you, Captain. That’s useful. Knowing that early gives me a chance. I’ll do my best.”
“Sir.”
Heaviside took himself back to his Company, passing a number of evidently ill men being helped back to the waiting wagons. By now Deakin had returned to Halfway, now very hot, with Peters draping a wet rag around his head.
“Now listen, old mate. Captain Heaviside has seen the Colonel and it looks like they’m clearin’ wagons. I saw the Surgeon go back, so I d’reckon there’s more of you. I saw them fussin’ around D’Villiers, perhaps he’s got it too. They’ll take care of you. Look after yourself and do like they say, so’s you gets well.
He turned his head towards the sound of “fall in”.
“Right. Let’s get you back to the wagons. Peter’s give us a hand here.”
With Halfway’s kit draped around their own necks and shoulders, Halfway was walked and carried back to one of the supply wagons. They came to the first and looked in, to be rebuffed by a harassed storeman.
“Officers only. Try the next one.”
They turned to confront Lieutenant D’Villiers, being helped by his servant; clearly unwell, but not as advanced as Halfway. They reached the back of the next wagon, already half full, and helped him up. As Peters laid him out, arranged his kit, and placed his rolled up greatcoat as a pillow, Deakin topped up his canteen, and propped it up by his side. He heard orders being shouted outside; he knew he had to leave. He lifted Halfway's hand and squeezed it; the response was weak, as was the smile from the half lifted head.
“There’s your water, to your left. We’n away now, old son. See you in a while when you’n back on your feet. Do like you’m told now. For now then; so long.”
Peters smiled and patted Halfway on the chest. Both climbed down and ran to catch up with the now marching column.
oOo
Stuart’s army marched on, trailing their sick and wounded with them, until they reached Monteleone, the first garrisoned obstacle on their march to Scilla. It was a dirty white jumble of a variety of buildings, some well founded, some of the poorest. The town filled a dish shaped valley, with some buildings creeping up onto the higher slopes and a bleak, grey castle that hoisted its higher battlements above the highest buildings, but, these being low and squat, that was no remarkable achievement. Oswald’s Brigade, the Swiss and the 58th, were at the heads of the column, but Stuart held them back and rode up to investigate, taking Oswald, Cole, Acland, and Kempt with him. Their attention focused on the castle, still flying the French tricolour, and French infantry were manning barricades across the main road and others on the edge of the town.
Stuart pondered. Was it a demonstration, to see that honour was satisfied, or a serious defence? Time to ask the question.
“Kempt. Is Carr’s Light Company back with you yet?”
“Right. Oswald. Get your two in column, either side of the road. Cole. I want Lacey’s out on the left, pushing around their flank. Then we will see, Gentlemen, just what these French have in mind.”
The group split as the riders went back to their various commands. Cole soon reached Lacey and salutes were exchanged. Respect between the two had grown.
“Lacey. Oswald is sending his two forward, in column either side of the road. Yours are to march up and overtake Kempt’s Lights and position yourselves to menace their right flank.”
“Line or column, Sir?”
“Line, but three deep, I’d say. If you do have to go in, you’ll need skirmish order.”
The orders were given and soon they were marching up the road, past the Light Battalion that had been called off the road and were resting up on the grass verge, using the shade of some ragged olive trees. The silence did not last long.
“It’s the rag and bone boys! Must be some kind of shoddy shop up in that town. Short of a few bits and pieces, are you lads?”
However, many amongst the 5th, now bloodied in battle and knowing it, were not inclined to take such comments without some measure of reply.
“That’s alright, boys, you just take your ease. A bit of quality’s needed, and so they’re moving us up. Don’t boil your pork and peas just yet; you can do that after we’ve got you in. We’ll light you a nice warm fire.”
The banter continued then faded, as the 5th marched past and moved off to the left of Oswald’s two columns, but they had barely extended out before the tricolour came down and the Sicilian Royal Standard was run up. The town had surrendered. Oswald’s 58th were ordered straight in and they dismantled the now unmanned barrier from the main road, before advancing on. Lacey spread his companies around the edge of the town, giving each an entrance, be it alleyway or garden and they entered the town, passing between the houses. There was barely a soul to be seen, but cheering could be heard from the direction that they assumed would be the main road. Deakin, Stiles and Gibney were moving on between the houses, bayonets fixed, following Captain Heaviside. Old men and crones stood at their doors to watch their passing, toothless grins and crablike hands reaching out to touch them, declaring a greeting. The suspicious redcoats smiled and nodded in return, whilst still maintaining a careful watch on all windows and corners.
Suddenly, they heard a ferocious commotion from up ahead, many voices, both male and female, loud shouts, and different languages. They had reached a main side road and from around a corner came a large group of men, followed by several women, but the focus of the group was a struggling figure, trying to stay on his feet whilst being dragged, kicked and pushed down towards the centre of the town. He was evidently French and a ranking Officer as shown by his ribbons, medals and epaulettes, but he had taken a fearful beating. His mouth was swollen and one eye was shut. There were bleeding cuts on his face, and he bled also from holes in the knees of his now filthy breeches, evidence that he had been dragged, seemingly over some way. Whilst he was being hauled along, he was all the while threatened with cudgels, staves and menaced by a variety of sharp farm tools. Heaviside turned to his men and gave orders to a large group.
“You men, follow them down. If it looks as though they are going to kill him, put a stop to it. Shoot if you have to. That Frenchman is a prisoner of war.”
The group, including Deakin and Stiles, followed the rapidly expanding group into the square. The crowd was so dense that the soldiers could do little to carry out their orders, if needed, which looked likely. The Frenchman was plainly an object of intense hatred, the gathering group spat at him, threw any kind of object at him and several did their best to get close enough to aim a kick. He was dragged to the horse trough and allowed to sit in the water and mud with his back against the rough stonework, but it was plain that he had little time left to live. A man emerged from the crowd and urinated on him to the delight of all watching, whilst behind his tormentor several men were gathering with axes and staves. When the urinator had finished, they walked forward, weapons raised, eager to finish the job. Then a pistol shot rang out and Major Willoughby forced his horse through the crowd, followed by a squad of 58th, with bayonets fixed. Willoughby placed his horse before the Frenchman and the soldiers completed the guard. The Frenchman kneeled in pleading supplication beneath Willoughby’s horse, hands clasped together, tears and cries emerging from his damaged eyes and mouth. Other British Officers, mostly Staff, were arriving on the Square. Willoughby called out to them.
“Get the interpreter, let’s try to find out what’s going on here.”
The interpreter was found and came through the crowd. Willoughby leaned forward over his horse’s shoulder.
“Ask them what this man has done.”
The interpreter did as he was bid and the result was a cacophony of shouts and arm waving from all who could hear, but the most telling gestures were to the graveyard, visible on the slope of the hill, with several, over 20, fresh graves marked by dark brown earth. Others pointed to a gallows, till now unnoticed, and a wall with its plaster shattered at chest height. The interpreter looked up.
“Sir. They say he is, was, the Commandante here, and he has killed many. He killed them to get them to tell where the food was, and ……..”
The interpreter turned to one townsman, perhaps more imposing than the others, to ask another question. Willoughby identified the word “masse”.
“He killed the townspeople here because of the attacks by the masse’, their partisans. Now they say that he must die too, Sir.”
Willoughby made his reply.
“Tell them this. If this man is to die, it will be after a hearing at least, to find out what he has done, and then with proof.”
The interpretation was made and it produced little angry response from the crowd, save more insults and approbation being spat and hurled at the distraught Frenchman. Willoughby looked for a solid building and found one, probably the Town Hall. He turned to a Sergeant in his escort.
“Take this man into that building. See that he is cared for and kept safe.”
The Officer was hauled to his feet and escorted away, at last given some protection from the kicks and spittle, but several townspeople were now running to the next occurrence. The surrendered French Garrison, now weaponless and under close escort, were being marched into the Square. Many people, mostly women, ran up close to the ranks of the redcoat escort and peered in and through and soon began pointing. The subjects identified did their best to reduce themselves in stature and hold their heads low, in the faint hope of not being seen, but Willoughby could see what the issue was. Plainly there were more involved than just the Commanding Officer.
“Halt.”
The prisoners and escort halted and the townspeople ran up and closed in. Willoughby followed and spoke to another Sergeant.
“The prisoners that these people are pointing at. Get them out.”
With many mistakes and terrified protestations, five Frenchmen were hauled out, identified with shouts and gestures for the redcoats to move left or right or beyond, to the correct member of the accused. With no more pointing fingers being thrust into the French ranks, Willoughby considered the task complete. Again to the Sergeant.
“Get those five over to that big building. See that they are kept safe. There’s going to be a trial.”
The interpreter heard the last sentence and conveyed it to the crowd. Willoughby couldn’t be sure of their reaction, to him it sounded somewhere between growling and cheering, but for now the issue was settled. He was grateful when Stuart rode in.
“Sir. There has been some disturbance. We had to prevent the locals from killing six of the French just surrendered. One was the Commanding Officer. They accuse them of murder, Sir. There are fresh graves in the graveyard, and over there,” he pointed to the corner of the square, “is a gallows and an execution wall. I think we need to mount some kind of trial, Sir. We will antagonise the local
s if we don’t hand them back or make some kind of a show. I think it clear, Sir, that some civilians have been killed.”
Stuart looked pained.
“I wanted no delay here. The quick capture of this place has given us a time advantage that I don’t want wasted on some kind of trial. It’s only just gone Noon, time yet for 10 more miles.”
Willoughby thought.
“May I suggest, Sir, that some Senior Officers remain here, to conduct a trial, with one battalion, while the rest of the army pushes on to Scilla. What you leave here should be able to march out by morning.”
Stuart looked at Willoughby.
“Right. Cole and Kempt will stay. Cole as Senior can be the Chairman. Lacey can make up the third. His battalion stays, and you accompany me. I want the army through here in an hour. Each battalion makes up its water then moves on. No other delay.”
“Sir. And the prisoners just surrendered?”
“March them with us. They can embark at Reggio. It won’t be long before that will also be ours, I feel sure.”
Staff Officers bustled about with orders, and the 5th Provisionals formed up on the square, to be dismissed to find what point of rest they could, and soon be plied with oranges and pomegranates, but an enterprising baker selling soft, flat bread was more welcome. Things improved further when a seller of dried fish also arrived, then someone selling cheese, and the picnic atmosphere grew around the square that hitherto had been the scene of high drama and near murder. The soldiers lounged and watched proceedings, whilst giving scraps to the children. Kempt arrived, with a face like thunder, and all watched as himself, Cole, and their own Colonel entered the Town Hall. The interpreter, with the imposing local, had gone around to gather witnesses and these formed a group outside the building, but they were not noisy, all remained decorously serious and sombre as befits an ongoing trial.
Some soldiers went to the trough for a wash and tried to clean some clothes, with the strong hope that they would dry soon enough on stones that were hot enough to hurt from the fierce, high sun. The witnesses went in and later re-emerged. Several of those that came out waved their arms and shouted to the sky, with pleasure or with curses, but for the soldiers of the 5th, it was impossible to tell. All the while the army marched through, wasting none of the short time they were given to get water, or to buy from the hastily erected stalls.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 43
