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

by Martin McDowell

  “Well done, Parson. You’re a good comrade, it’s the truth and that’s your due. Full ready with what’s needed. We’re grateful.”

  Many echoed Miles’ words, and Sedgwicke’s grin split his face as he doled out the rations, giving more than measure. There was plenty still in stores and none would be taken back. Around their cooking pots, all heating upon the large fire, there was little conversation, one stirred the broth whilst the others saw to their equipment. Just the simple exchange of glances, nods, and smiles that conveyed amongst them the shared acknowledgement of another day survived.

  Captain Carravoy and his Grenadiers had reached the walkway above the main beach that looked out onto The Straits, the walkway led seaward back to the newly cut steps. The change in the weather added to his black mood. With him was Lieutenant D’Villiers, off duty, but seeking conversation. Lieutenant Ameshurst and Sergeant Major Gibney walked together along the battlement, checking the sentries, whilst the remainder of the company took shelter from the fine rain in whichever holes and corners offered themselves. Carravoy and D’Villiers leaned over a crenellation that was sheltered by the looming battlement above and watched the tide go out. Small waves rose from the calm sea to flop exhausted on the hard shingle, creating white surf that the ebbing tide slowly pulled back towards the foot of the steps that led down to the beach at the rear of the castle. They said little; in their own way, each had learned to cope with the constant danger, but the high anxiety from being always under the French assault was a permanent drain on both their nerves and their temper. Eventually D’Villiers spoke the question that had been growing within him since their own guns had no longer been able to reply their own defiance.

  “Which do you think, evacuated, prisoner, or dead?”

  Carravoy shrugged.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. We have O’Hare in charge here, with Sherbrooke pulling the strings over there, and Simmonds chipping in, as and when. O’Hare wants us out and I agree, but Sherbrooke has to decide. Carr doesn’t, damn fool that he is; he wants us to stay and carry on this hopeless charade. I swear he’d send the lot of us down the river if it meant the killing of one more Frenchman. The man’s a lunatic, a dangerous lunatic, but he’s been overruled, by O’Hare, thank Heaven. So now, it’s all about Sherbrooke saying yes, the boats coming over, and us getting out before our French friends get in. Personally, I have little trust in any of them.”

  At that moment Gibney approached out of the dark, came to the attention and saluted.

  “Beg pardon, Sir.”

  Carravoy turned to face him.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “One of t’sentries, Sir, the one closest to the French. He’s worried, Sir, thinks he’s seen something, something white, Sir, and heard equipment janglin’ too. Sir.”

  “Which one?”

  “Henshaw, Sir. He’s old Norfolk, Sir, and seen a bit.”

  “He’s probably got the jitters about a night assault, like we all have.”

  “Like we all have, Sir. Yes Sir.”

  Carravoy detected the condescending tone, but Gibney continued.

  “But ‘tis an extra low tide tonight, Sir. Chance perhaps for the French to get around the side of us, see what can be done. Shall I take some men down t’steps, Sir? Take a look, like, just in case?”

  Carravoy’s annoyance was hid by the darkness but the concern of a veteran Sergeant Major couldn’t be ignored.

  “Very well. Take ten men. And tell Lieutenant Ameshurt I’ve asked him to take charge. He at least has a level head.”

  “Shouldn’t we warn Major Simmonds, Sir?”

  “No, let’s see what we have. Almost certainly it’s a false alarm.”

  Gibney roused up the nearest ten men and told them to check their priming and fix bayonets. He took up his own musket and did the same. Ameshurst eased his sword in its scabbard and checked the priming pan of his own pistol, but he did not replace it into his waistband but let the weight of it carry his arm down to his side. Ameshurst left the battlement and went to the walkway that led to the steps.

  “Sergeant, form on me. All of you, at the “make ready”. Right, come on.”

  He led forward through the almost complete darkness to where the walkway joined the steps.

  “Henshaw says he saw white, you say?”

  “That’s right Sir. White.”

  “Hmmm, could be crossbelts.”

  He turned to his men, speaking just above a whisper.

  “If the Sergeant and myself fire, you fire in pairs, then drop to your knees to be clear for the next behind. Then it’s bayonets. Am I understood?”

  Several “Yes Sirs” came from the dark and Ameshurst began his descent. Gibney’s bayonet led the way, the barrel against Ameshurst’s right arm. To Ameshurst’s left was the open drop to the beach. The steps were wet from the rain and water trickled down the rock to their right and the sound of the waves grew with each step descended, but they were now out beyond the narrow band of surf. One of his men hissed in an audible whisper.

  “Sir, I’m sure I heard something, Sir. Like someone swearin’.”

  Ameshurst stopped.

  “No lower. Hold here, I’m not losing any more height. I go on alone.”

  Ameshurt fully cocked his pistol, but Gibney, even though it was a hanging offence, grabbed his arm.

  “Sir, if thee goes down there and if there is a gang of Johnnies, that’s a death sentence, Sir. They’ll have you against this rock like a rat on a wall.”

  Gibney saw Ameshurst’s teeth grin white in the gloom.

  “Yes, Sergeant, thank you for your concern. But we must check, right to the bottom. If they are there, we must hit them early, the sooner we can hit them before they ascend too far, the better”

  “Then I’m comin’ with thee, Sir.”

  “No you’re not. Stay here and command the men. Now; I’m going, we’ve wasted time.”

  Ameshurst drew his sword, transferred his pistol to his left hand and continued down. Gibney watched his back disappear into the gloom and the fine rain. Ameshurst slowly descended, one step at a time, to listen and peer forward. A sound came up, was it the scrape of a musket butt on the stone? He crouched down and waited, counting the seconds. If he reached thirty, he’d go on. He didn’t get to five. A figure with a sword and large epaulettes grew out of the dark and rain below him. Ameshurst raised his pistol and fired. The figure jerked back amongst the white crossbelts behind, and Ameshurst looked over down to the sea. The water was full of wading men, all with muskets held high, and he knew at that moment that his muzzle flash had been his death sentence.

  Gibney heard the massive volley that was loosed at Lieutenant Ameshurst and gave his own orders.

  “Fire by ranks, aim down t’steps.”

  He fired his own musket then knelt to reload as the soldiers behind obeyed Ameshurst’s last orders, the muzzles of the first two muskets erupting above his head, but Gibney realised that these muzzle flashes were showing their own position. He waited for all to fire.

  “Up ten steps. Do it again.”

  Thus the small squad began a fighting rearguard back up the way they had come. No French came up to them, but bullets were slamming into the rock above the steps as the French fired at where their muzzle flashes showed them to be, or had been.

  The sound of Ameshurst’s pistol jerked Carravoy out of the mood of angry depression that he had sunk further into. Realisation came quick, clear, and disconcerting, that his men had been right and he had been wrong.

  “Sergeants! Get the men up and along the walkway. The French are attacking this side. Sentries, with me.”

  Carravoy, with his sentries, ready and loaded, ran along the walkway. D’Villiers was caught up in the rush and joined in, not sure what to do, he had no weapon. Carravoy soon saw the muzzle flashes of the French; he emptied his own pistol then ran on to meet Gibney’s squad making their retreat.

  “Form here. Rapid fire.”

  Up on the highes
t battlement, surrounded by his Number Three Company, Captain Heaviside had been composing his next prayer for the safety of his family when he heard the sounds of the ferocious action beginning below.

  “Alert! Alert”! Man the right battlements. Pick your targets. Rapid fire.”

  His men ran to obey, but Heaviside was thinking elsewhere. He grabbed the first NCO he saw.

  “Deakin. Get ten men to the front battlement. Light the torches and throw them over, far out, the causeway especially. This may just be a diversion for the main attack. If you see anything coming, send a runner to the Major and a runner to me. Clear?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  Deakin already had Halfway at his side and the two of them each stopped five more. They ran to the front battlement, fired twelve of the torches kept there and flung them far out off the battlements. The burning brands each arced down towards both the beach and the causeway and they hit the stones with a burst of sparks.

  “You lot. Get to an embrasure and keep your eyes very open. If you sees anything, shout, at once!”

  Unsurprisingly, Deakin and Halfway were at neighbouring embrasures.

  “You think this is the main attack, Jed?”

  “Don’t know. Time will tell. But one thing I do know is that this is the end of the cannonin’. From now on they’m comin’ at us.”

  At the steps, the weight of fire hitting the French was now appalling, as from both above and from the side the Grenadiers and Heaviside’s men kept up an incessant fire, firing in relays from the embrasures and walkway. The French were trapped, stood waist deep in the cold waters, and burning torches had lodged on the steps to give enough light for the British above. Soon any French left alive were making their escape, wading painfully slowly out of the light, giving no return of fire to betray their position. Soon there was no-one left for the British to fire at; the surface of the sea close to the castle rock was covered in dead bodies, half floating, their lifeless limbs moving in slow motion with the waves of the incoming tide that would return them to the beach from which they had come.

  Carravoy seized Gibney’s arm to turn him around. Gibney obeyed the tug on his sleeve and saluted.

  “What’re our casualties, Sergeant?”

  “Three wounded, two dead. Sir.”

  “Lieutenant Ameshurst?”

  “Missing, Sir, but I think he must be dead, Sir. He went down alone, Sir, to take a look. He fired his pistol, then a whole volley was fired at him. I don’t see how he could have survived, Sir.”

  Carravoy’s spirits sank further. His final Lieutenant dead, acting bravely, as had Berkeley. However, at that moment there came a great commotion amongst his men on the walkway, mostly shouting “Glad to see you, Sir.” From amongst them came a dripping Ameshurst, boots squelching as he walked. Gibney couldn’t stop himself from clapping his huge hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder, another hanging offence.

  “Thee’s got out, Sir. What did th’do?”

  “Well, I remembered your wise words, Sergeant Major, about rats on a wall, and as soon as I fired, I jumped into the sea. There were French all around, but to them I was just another face on the water, looking dead. My main worry was being shot by you people, but you’re all such rotten marksmen, I survived. When the French had all gone, I got back onto the steps, and climbed back up. Here I am.”

  Laughter and congratulations came from everywhere; Ameshurst was well liked, and Gibney took off his own jacket and put it around Ameshurst’s shoulders. Carravoy’s emotions oscillated between relief at Ameshurst’s survival but also jealousy. Ameshurst had properly handled both himself and his men, on top was his own personal bravery. The result was a return to Carravoy’s irritable depression.

  oOo

  The following morning O’Hare ordered that a white flag be hung above the main gate. A resplendent and immaculate French Staff Officer came onto the causeway and saluted. Each side understood, this was a truce to allow the collection of the dead. The foreshore close to the castle rocks and many yards beyond it were thick with the casualties of the abortive night attack. Throughout the morning not a shot was fired, nor was there any sound as parties of French soldiers gathered up and carried away their casualties. When all had been taken away, the same French Officer came forward and gave the same salute. The truce was ended.

  However, military activity, of sorts, did not cease altogether. O’Hare stood at the side of his signalman as he called out the letters for his co-signaller to write down. The first sentence was already complete and it was the one that O’Hare wanted.

  “Evacuation 17th. Transports ready.”

  He waited for the completion of the final sentence.

  “Heliades and Ipheion escorts. Captain Baines in command.”

  O’Hare turned to his Sergeant Aide de Camp.

  “All Officers, all! In my quarters. 15 minutes.”

  Carr, Drake, Rushby, Carravoy and D’Villiers climbed the stairs together, but not a word was exchanged. Heaviside, Ameshurst and Simmonds, were already present. There were not enough chairs and so the latecomers stood. O’Hare himself stood to speak.

  “Gentlemen, we evacuate day after tomorrow. You take only what you can carry on your back, you will convey the same orders to the men.”

  Carravoy took a step forward and raised his hand.

  “What about what our servants can carry, Sir?”

  “They have their own possessions and I would regard it as extremely churlish were any Officer here to require a servant to discard any of their own possessions to make room for those of their Officer! I hope I have made that clear. But, to the real business. The French will see our transports and will probably attack, no matter their state of readiness. They will want to pay us back, we’ve caused them a butcher’s bill far higher than they feel merits the bargain.”

  He let that sink in, then continued.”

  “Major Simmonds and Captain Heaviside, I want an evacuation plan by the end of today. You will assume a coincidental assault. Dismiss.”

  All left, with different thoughts in their heads. Carravoy and D’Villiers; which luxuries to sacrifice, Simmonds and Heaviside mulling over the kernel of a plan, the others speculating on their possible role in that very plan. They returned to their Companies, informed their men, then left it to their Sergeants. Miles was the first to make a comment.

  “Well, that’s bloody easy. Every damn thing I own goes into my two sacks, I’ve bugger all else that could be left behind.”

  The orders reached the storesmen to send all food that was left up to the men, but not the surplus rum. One rum ration for the following day, the rest to be tipped away. Sedgwicke and Pearson rolled the spare barrel out of the store and Pearson stopped at a convenient drain, but Sedgwicke stopped him from removing the bung.

  “No, we must tip this at the back, at the sea. A lot of rum washing ashore will tell all to the French, I fear.”

  Pearson nodded assent.

  “A blessing to have an educated man!”

  For the rest of the day the truce held, and all within the castle busied themselves with their affairs. Drake was scribbling a note.

  “What’s the French for “occupants’?”

  Carr replied without looking up.

  “Blessed if I know. Some kind of habitue’ would be my guess.”

  Rushby spoke up.

  “It’s the same. Their occupants is the same as ours.”

  “Right. Job done.”

  This time Carr did look up.

  “What’s that?”

  “A note to the new French tenants.”

  “And it says?”

  “Les nouveaux occupants plairont-ils la feuille la maison comme ils le trouvent ?”

  “And in English?”

  “Will the new occupants of this house please leave the place as they find it?”

  “Oh very droll. That’ll raise a few French smiles, gallic grins, no doubt.”

  He stood up and walked to his equipment.

  “Right,
I’m done. Ten minutes we’re on duty. Top battlement till dawn.”

  It proved to be a long quiet night, the only noteworthy event being the arrival of Captain Baines in the small hours, guided in from the Heliades by a single lantern. From that moment, their Naval guest, O’Hare and his two planners were locked in conference. Dawn came, Spring clear with a good light, and with that the bombardment resumed, concentrating on the already ruined left bastion, but enlarging the breach. Carr and Drake had stood themselves down, it was but minutes to their relief, when Rushby came up.

  “Sir. The French; they’re coming out and carrying ladders.”

  Carr and Drake catapulted themselves upright and ran to an embrasure. The French were on the same spot as they themselves were, over a year ago, carrying ladders as they had done, but these waving them up and down. Carr was immediately incensed, very angry.

  “Damn cheeky bastards. Do they think we fell out of the same chamber pot as them? Where’s Davey? Get him here.”

  Davey reported and saluted.

  “The French are trying the same theatre as we. Remember?”

  “Sir.”

  “We shouldn’t shoot them, by all the rules they are giving us a chance to surrender, but you see that Officer, the one with the sword, grinning?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Take off his hat, he’s being bloody rude, but don’t hurt him, at least not too much.”

  Davey grinned and began a careful loading of his rifle, including the piece of thin leather around the ball. He settled himself at the embrasure, took aim, took a breath that he held, then fired. The ball wrecked the hat, lifting the crown up and over as a ragged blue disc, but the strap held and Officer’s head was jerked back. He began shouting at his men and all ran back through the gaps in the houses, the Officer now wholly comical with his dismembered hat hanging down behind his head. He scuttled off behind his men, this all much to the amusement of the British on the battlements, them making sure that their laughter and catcalling was loud enough to reach across the space to the French. At that moment Carravoy and his Grenadiers arrived; they had heard the shot.