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

by Martin McDowell

  The same runner as before again reached Drake, holding back the encroaching French.

  “Sir. You are to fall back, Sir.”

  “Agreed. Tell the Major you’ve told me.”

  The runner disappeared, then Drake turned to his Sergeant, Ben Fearnley.

  “Hold here, Sergeant. You hold here. Behind you is the only escape for Captain Carr. I’m going to get him.”

  Drake tapped two men and they ran out onto the walkway, but they turned left to get to the roof passageway. Still running they reached the bottom of the stairs, and were hugely relieved to see Carr and Davey, coming down and carrying Rushby.

  “How bad is he?”

  “Can’t tell, but it seems pretty bad.”

  The two soldiers took over the burden of Rushby and with Drake anxiously examining Rushby, they started for the walkway, Carr was the last and he turned to make a final check, looking back along the passageway. His last glance saw the prone figure of Carravoy dragging himself forward on his elbows. Carr’s companions had gone, so there was no point in shouting and the sounds of battle came from every direction. He ran back to Carravoy, saw immediately a wound in the back of his head and the blood on his leg. He turned him over. Carravoy looked pale and faraway. Just then a mortar shell came bounding down the stairs from the roof, the fuse spluttering and malignant. Carr ran back drew out a handkerchief, stuffed it into the fizzing fusehole and pressed down upon it with all his weight. The seconds were agonizing and the two looked at each other, each expression clear that this could be their last moments on Earth. More seconds passed. Nothing. Carr ran back to the prone Carravoy.

  “Come on, Charles, or we’ll miss the boat.”

  He wrapped Carravoy’s left arm around his shoulders and hoisted him up. Becoming upright, Carravoy seemed to find some use in his unwounded leg, even to regain the power of speech.

  “Thank you, Carr. I seem to be not quite feeling my usual self.”

  “We’ll count that as a blessing! You’ve got a hole in your head. You are catching me up, but I’ve got two and yours is at the back. And that was a fine linen kerchief. I expect a replacement.”

  They emerged out onto the walkway, and turned the corner when the mortar went off with a huge roar and the explosion came out of the tunnel as though it were from the mouth of a cannon. Each looked at the other but said nothing, then both limped and stumbled to the passageway entrance where Drake and some Lights were still holding back the French. As Carr and Carravoy passed they turned and all fell back to where Miles, Pike and Davey were forming a rearguard at the walkway gate-arch, halfway along. Rushby remained a lifeless figure at their feet and Carr examined him again, but felt more certain than before. He could feel no pulse. Miles spoke.

  “We’re pretty sure he’s gone, Sir. Best you go on, now, Sir. We’ll hold them off from here, then file back.”

  Carr gave no argument. Miles was right, best to let this file of three do their work together as the last rearguard. He turned and followed the Lights helping Carravoy to the top of the steps. All descended down.

  Back at the gate, Miles fired, then Pike. The French had emerged out onto the walkway and in force. Davey shouted to his companions.

  “I’m loaded. You two, get gone.”

  Joe Pike shouted a protest.

  “Get gone. I’ll jump into the sea if I have to. Get gone.”

  Davey sighted along his rifle, and both Miles and Pike knew argument was useless. They ran for the top of the steps and there they stopped and waited, taking position and waiting for Davey to file back. Davey was just sighting on the leading Officer when the whole of the walkway, now crowded with French, dissolved into blood, dust, stones, spinning weapons and shakoes. The Heliades had trained her guns on the walkway and fired grapeshot as soon as the French emerged. Davey lowered his weapon and turned to leave. At that moment Rushby groaned. Davey looked down at him.

  “My Lord, Sir, you do choose your moments.”

  At the bottom of the steps, on the platform, the last were climbing into the last boat, this being the longboat rowed over from the Heliades to join the evacuation. Carravoy was carefully helped in and Carr looked up to see Miles and Pike holding their positions at the top of the steps, waiting for Davey. Grenades were arriving on the platform from the French arriving on the battlements above, but they were quickly kicked into the water, however some were bouncing off the steps above. Carr’s mind was settled when two, then another, then another, exploded on the walkway above, sending dust and smoke out over the cliff.

  “Miles, Pike. Retire, that’s an order.”

  Miles and Pike heard and looked at each other, then at the smoke that filled the walkway. The arch had disappeared behind the smoke. Miles counted, three, then four seconds, then he looked at Pike, and inclined his head back. Pike knew the gesture and followed him down the steps, their careful pacing of each step soon turning into a run. The boat was pulling away and they had to jump. Miles gained his feet in the boat and took one last look back to the top of the steps, then gripped the man in front, who happened to be Captain Carr.

  “Jesus!”

  Davey was at the top of the steps with Rushby thrown over his shoulder. He re-adjusted his burden, then began down. Shouts of encouragement came from the boat, intensifying from relief and extra hope as more grapeshot smashed into the walkway behind him and some also into the embrasures immediately above. Davey had reached the bottom, but the gap was now too far to jump, certainly too far to throw Rushby.

  “Throw me a line.”

  A light rope snaked over and Davey spent agonizing seconds lashing it around and under Rushby’s armpits, but this done he lowered him into the water. The line went immediately taught as Rushby was hauled out to the boat. More grenades hit the platform, one into the boat but it was quickly thrown overboard. Davey threw off his tunic, kicked off his boots and dived in. He emerged at the surface halfway to the boat and a powerful breastroke took him to the side in time to push Rushby up as others pulled from above. Davey was then roughly hauled up himself to land in the bottom of the boat. He opened his eyes, looked up and found himself looking up at Miles.

  “Now wer’ did you learn to swim?”

  “There’s more than one way to get clear of the Squire’s men!”

  Miles pulled out his bandana and wiped his messmate’s face.

  “Thievin’ poacher! You nearly had me worried, there. At least for a while!”

  oOo

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Righteous Outcome

  The long column of soldiery drew little more than a glance. Countless such parades had passed to and fro from London and Chatham, marching, and counter-marching, up and along the Old Kent Road, to embark, or disembark, as required. All this had now become very familiar over the years since war became formal and active between Britain and France. This latest addition in the long sequence, as it dropped down into Deptford off the wide expanse of Blackheath, was merely the latest; a long column in ranks of four made up of tanned, hard eyed men, three mounted Officers leading but most Officers marching on foot before their Companies. NCO’s in step, but detached alongside. The good people of Deptford were undiverted, being well used to this to-ing and fro-ing that reminded them that they were still at war, so the only stir amongst the population came via the inevitable small boys that attached themselves to the sides of the column, to be sworn at and shooed off by the stone faced Sergeants and Corporals.

  Some, who afforded them more than a glance, saw enough to give rise to more than simple curiosity, and their examination then became more prolonged. Their jackets were not red, more like pink, and several bore items of uniform that were holed and patched, dirty, even bloody. Several boots were almost falling apart, held by twine that itself was wearing out and made a fringe beside the departing sole from the upper. Some knapsacks were two-tone cowhide. There was little about the sight to afford it the description of “stirring and military”, but it did not require an old soldier to discern that
these were, perhaps not parade ground, but certainly hardened soldiers. Such as they were becoming more common throughout the British Army, there was nothing ponderous about their gait, nor anything slouched about their demeanour. These were plainly veterans, making a hard march. The 5th Provisionals had returned home, although London was counted as home for barely a small proportion. Orders were to march to Camberwell, remain there the night, then march on to Horse Guards for an 11.00 o’ clock parade. The three mounted Officers at their head, said little to each other. It would have been difficult anyway, each was riding in echelon, behind and to the side of the other, but Lieutenant Colonel Lacey occasionally allowed himself a look back to examine his command, and each time his sense of satisfaction grew; his 600 odd men were marching perfectly in step, muskets on the right shoulder, arms swinging in perfect unison. However, from time to time he extracted a letter from his inside pocket that caused him more than mere satisfaction, it caused an open grin. He read it again, whilst allowing his horse to find its own direction, then turned to look at his second in command, Major O’Hare. At the same time he held the letter out and back, in offer.

  “Would you like another read, O’Hare?”

  “I think I would, Sir.”

  He urged his horse forward the extra three yards and took the letter, then reined his horse back. The words brought the same expression to his face as they had to his Colonel.

  Lieutenant Colonel William Lacey – Officer Commanding: 5th Provisionals.

  Sir,

  Upon disembarkation, you are to proceed with your men to Camberwell Green, there to receive new uniforms and equipment as required. You are then to march to Horse Guards Parade, for 11am 19th May 1808, where your Battalion will be formally conferred as the 105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Wessex Regiment.

  His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales, has instructed the Commander in Chief, to award the 5th Provisionals a Number and Colours such as will designate your Command as a Regiment of the Line. This award has been bestowed in recognition of your service during the recent conflict in Southern Italy, as described in the Campaign Reports of General Sir John Stuart and Major General Sir John Coape Sherbrooke.

  God Save the King

  Secretary to the Commander in Chief, General Sir Henry Livermore.

  11th May 1808

  Having read the letter once, then once again, Major O’Hare urged his horse up alongside his Commanding Officer and returned it. Each shared a smug look as the letter was returned to the inside of Lacey’s jacket.

  oOo

  Camberwell Green was reached in the mid afternoon and found to be a prim and proper village green surrounded by neat houses, with cared for doors and windows that soon flew open with the arrival of the hundreds strong body of soldiery. Before too long the word went around and a variety of stalls and barrows arrived around the edge to display their wares and produce, but already waiting along one side was a long array of low carts each loaded with a particular item of uniform. All was to be changed, except weapons, these were to be cleaned and made fit for parade. By single companies they paraded past the carts to be laden with the new item; jackets, haversacks, knapsacks, boots, canteens, greatcoats, stocks, scabbards, cartridge boxes, blankets and breeches. At this last cart they found Sergeant Major Gibney, regularly intoning a solemn command.

  “Tha’ breeches is not to be changed until parade int’ mornin’. This is to stop thee causing disturbance to t’local ladies around these parts, and second, so that they is new and clean for parade tomorrow. Don’t sleep in ‘em!”

  Old Norfolks ruefully surrendered their “Holy Boys” shako and looked askance at the common GR in the centre of the replacement, with flags either side, a crown above and a lion below. 105 was shown on their canteen and a simple 105 on their crossbelt badge, but their jacket facings were the subject of much comment as they returned to their messes, none more so than from Tom Miles.

  “What kind of bloody facings is this, bright green? We’ll stand out like a bunch of May Queens. We’ve gone from “Rag and Bone” to “Paddy’s Own”. ‘Tweren’t no soldier as thought this up?”

  It was his nemesis, Sergeant Ellis, who spoke up and answered amidst the laughs and guffaws that met Miles’ comment.

  “You wear it, Miles, and like it. And, on top, that’s got to go.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to Miles’ back.

  “That Frencher knapsack you bin totin’ since Maida. The brown and white cowhide job you looted. You can store it, or sell it, but it’s regulation issue from now on.”

  “So I gets another flimsy affair, courtesy of His Majesty, that’ll fall apart after the first soakin’. This’ve lasted I a year nor more. I’m for keepin’ on’n.”

  “Your choice, but you parades with regulation. Now get your new brass work polished up. I’ll be lookin’ ‘specially at yours come mornin’. There’s a cart there with brickdust and blanco. You’re back in England now, so parade includes stocks and hair queues.”

  “England you say? Now there’s a fact that’s so far escaped my attention!”

  Miles took himself over to the said cart, passing two of his Officers, each discussing their own concerns. Of the two, Captain Henry Carr and Lieutenant Nathaniel Drake, the latter appeared the most anxious.

  “Do you think they’ll be there?”

  His Captain, Henry Carr, displayed a nonchalant air, hands clasped behind his back. He inclined himself in Drake’s direction.

  “Can’t say, not with anything like certainty. As soon as we landed we sent off word, post haste to Taunton. That was six days ago. If everything has functioned as it should, then they’ll be there, but ……?”

  He looked at Drake and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “It’s in the lap of the Gods”.

  “Now, we must attend to our uniforms. Morrison is doing his best, but I feel we should lend a hand. Important day tomorrow.”

  Both walked off to busy themselves with the affairs of the forthcoming parade, but two Officers remained standing almost in the centre of the green, deep in conversation, and their talk was none too cheerful as could be seen from the morose look on their faces. Captain Carravoy and Lieutenant D’Villiers were each discussing their futures.

  “Well, Royston. We’re back in the capital. What is your mind regarding a transfer?”

  D’Villiers face screwed up in thought, betraying the lack of a clear decision.

  “Probably, yes. One hundred and five is hardly high ranking, is it? Which is the point, there’s no status whatsoever. I mean, what’s to be gained by saying, I’m in the Hundred and Fifth? And I’ve had enough of Heaviside; he issues and enforces his military edicts with the same fervour as those of his religion. He thinks me incompetent. I’ve had enough, so I’ve written to my people to take it up again. What about you?”

  “Not sure. Remaining with the one oh five, the “Heroes of Maida” may not be so bad, but it’s likely that I’ll attempt to purchase a Majority somewhere. Perhaps even an exchange. That’s something you could consider. This battalion now has a reputation as one that fights, and for some, that makes it worth exchanging into. Casualties means dead men’s shoes to fill. Whatever, go or stay, I’m not too concerned either way, there’s merit in both.”

  Both nodded in mutual agreement, then, hearing horses, they both came to attention to salute their Senior Officers who were riding off The Green to the main road.

  Storesman Sedgwicke also came to the salute with their passing. He also was engaged in a philosophical ponder, but less on his future. He thought of his family, in particular his sister, who had kept him supplied with adequate funds. He had written, but would she reply, would she journey to the capital for this rare opportunity to see him? His thoughts then turned to the Church that faced out onto The Green. A Cleric of some sort was polishing the brass handle, oblivious to the bustling activity displaying itself behind him. “There but for fortune” entered his head several times, but he busied himself with the new uniforms,
and held to the hope that he could gain some time to enter and pray in an English Church, perhaps that one, for the first time for over two years.

  oOo

  General Perry was in a state of high agitation, sat in the Outer Office, this being the office of the Under Secretary to the Secretary of the Commander in Chief. He occupied, fortunately without his knowledge, the very same chair as used by Captain Carr back in October 1805. Everything about his uniform, and person, that could be examined, pulled at, and adjusted had suffered exactly that fate, and several times over. Nothing in the office had changed over the intervening years, all remained as it had over the decades before that. As ever, the notes from the striking clock marked the hours and the most rapidly moving object in the room was the feather of the Under Secretary’s quill, the only motivator for the motes of dust that hung in the few shafts of sunlight. Discounting Perry’s agitation, the quill was all that moved, besides the hands of the clock, which stood lugubrious as any Undertaker.

  Perry looked upon the black coated and black featured Secretary with a look as black as the subject of his gaze, but the Secretary, with studied calm and careful concern, slowly went about the methodical tasks as required by the Under Secretary to the Secretary of the Commander in Chief. He completed each task, slowly and carefully, as though any approach less ponderous would place the fate of the whole British Army in deep jeopardy. Perry had arrived without an appointment, feeling certain that his rank, the equal to that of General Livermore, would gain him rapid access. That had proven to be an illusion, and the tall sentinel of a clock had now rung for two quarter hours, the deep chimes beating more and more upon General Perry’s patience. Just at the point where he was about to give vent to his deep frustration, the door to Livermore’s Office opened and the subject of his occupation emerged, but this did nothing to quell Perry’s temper. He who came out was nothing more than a Major aide de camp, and this inferior had been given priority over him for the past half hour. The Under Secretary raised his head at a speed that told it was too heavy for the shrivelled neck muscles, and at the top of the rise he spoke, the thin lips extending into a rictus grin, but his eyes held the chill of a Gorgon.