“General Livermore will see you now, Sir. He knows you’re here.”
Was that last a cutting remark to emphasise Perry’s secondary priority? Livermore knew of his presence, but still kept him waiting? General Perry’s conclusion did nothing to improve his mood and he rose and hurtled through the open door. General Livermore was standing in respectful greeting, hand extended towards a fellow General Officer. When Perry ignored it, Livermore changed the gesture to one that merely indicated a seat, which Perry had already taken. When both were seated, each stared at the other, expecting the initiative to come from the opposite side of the desk, but Livermore began, having taken full notice of Perry’s liverish complexion.
“General Perry. How do you do? What is your concern?”
“My concern, Sir, is that one of my battalions, namely the 5th Detachments, now Provisionals, have returned from attachment abroad. As I see it they are still under my command. There has never been any official communiqué informing me otherwise. This being the case I wish them returned. I intend to split them over my four Militia Battalions and thus bring those up to strength. I expect to take the order back with me.”
Livermore listened whilst adopting his common pose. Sat back, elbows sat securely in the cup size recesses of the chair arms, created by countless adoptions of such pose, his fingers erect and opposed. He had become curious.
“Please inform me, General, I beg, why would you wish to break them up? They have been serving together for over two years. With some distinction, as I am able to detail for you, should you so wish.”
“Distinction be damned! Abroad or not! They’re a disorganised rabble, I both saw it and saw the result. Poorly commanded, poorly officered, and poorly trained. Too many criminals and rejects; and on top, Lacey made poor appointments. Officer corps all wrong. Their remaining as a discrete battalion makes no sense; indefensible; illogical.”
Livermore made no immediate reply to the tirade. He merely found the hole in his left ear with his left hand, then raised his eyebrows, whilst allowing an inscrutable smile to form on his lips. Eventually he spoke.
“I’m afraid that you must take the absence of a letter removing them from your command as an oversight, General. Back in October of that year, things were a little, er, fraught; and such things result during such times. That will be rapidly corrected. Regarding their forthcoming status, well I’m afraid that is now out of your hands. The Prince of Wales himself has requested that the “heroes of Maida” be made a Regiment bearing a title that includes the words, ‘Prince of Wales Own’. “His Own”, if you appreciate those words. The victory of Maida caused more than a little stir, you see, certainly up here in the capital; down there in Taunton, perhaps not. We are now faced with a Royal Command, no less.”
He paused, both to give room for an indulgent smile and to allow the fact to sink in.
“Maida had them dancing in the streets, General. It was the theme of Society Balls, if you understand, to dress with a Calabrian flavour. When Stuart came home, he was hailed as the ‘Hero of Maida’, and made a Knight of the Bath, and then, unsurprisingly, people began to read accounts of the battle, including his Princely Highness.”
Frustration and increased anger began to rise in Perry such that he gripped the arms of his chair enough to turn his knuckles white. This was going wrong. What he had taken to be a foregone conclusion was slipping; probably had, slipped away. The Prince was involved, Perry’s cherished ambition was vanishing, like ice in a kettle. Livermore opened a file, extracted some papers and continued.
“Regarding ‘disorganised rabble’, well, for a start, I read in Lacey’s first report that they sent you a French tricolour, captured by them off a privateer that tried to capture them. Any truth? Did that not give you pause?”
Perry wasn’t sure whether to nod his head or shake it. Livermore waited for some verbal addition, but none came, other than the intensification of Perry’s mouth and eyebrows knitting further together. Livermore continued.
“Also by way of contradiction, in his report General Stuart describes their holding of his left flank as, and I quote, ‘a most gallant and well conducted defence of their part of the line. At one point the battle could have turned on the outcome, for they were assailed on two fronts, yet they bravely stood their ground, finally advancing forward to confirm their victory.”
Livermore set down the paper and raised his eyes to study General Perry.
“Gallant and well conducted. Bravely, General, it says. All this is unknown to you?”
Perry shook his head, his face now showing clenched jaw and deeper colour. He said nothing.
“You do get newspapers down there? Don’t you General?”
Perry nodded, suddenly feeling exposed.
“And you knew nothing of the stand of the 5th? As just described?”
No reply.
“Then I will continue. People such as myself read these reports, and credit has been apportioned; in my view justly.””
He sought a further paper.
“General Sherbrooke adds more, this being in his report on the defence of Scilla by three of their companies. He says, using much the same words, ‘a gallant and well conducted defence of the castle, against great odds, causing the enemy heavy casualties that made their eventual gaining of the castle a costly bargain’. End of quote. They may have left you as a disorganised rabble, you must look to yourself as to the reason for that, but on active service they have behaved as well as any Regiment we have. Better. You may not agree, but the Prince of Wales would.”
He resumed his fingertip pose; to allow both the rebuttal and barb of the last two sentences sink in. Perry’s face continued to register deep anger and resentment, then confusion was added. It was Livermore who continued further.
“As for who’s command they are now under, that also has been settled.”
He found yet another piece of paper.
“They are now under the command of Brigadier Sir Henry Fane, whose Brigade is now numbered as the Sixth, amongst an army about to embark for Portugal under the command of General Sir Arthur Wellesley. Those two gentlemen, it would appear, are perfectly content to acknowledge them as a “Regiment of the Line.”
Silence fell, filled only with the gentle ticking of Livermore’s mantle clock, but he had had enough. He emerged from between the two deep wings of his chair.
“Well, General Perry. If you have no further business, then I bid you good day.”
Perry’s ire and frustration remained unabated. Up until now he had always gained his own way, his rank procured it, but here it was, write large; he was unable to act upon a most cherished prejudice. In fact his justification, were he to continue to voice it, would now be condemned as absurd. He rose from his chair and took himself out of Livermore’s presence and into the outer office, stepping around the mighty bastion of the Secretary’s desk to set a course through the red mist for the door. Movement to the right caught his attention, this being Lacey and O’Hare rising to attention. Perry ignored both, he reached the door and seized the handle, wrenching open the door to make an explosive exit, so fast his coat tails rose in the slipstream. Slowly, the door swung back of its own accord.
His disappearance was observed by General Livermore himself, who had emerged from his Office, knowing who waited outside.
“Lacey! Amazed to see you’re still vertical, and in one piece, and with all functioning.”
He advanced towards his old friend, hand extended before him, to take that of Lacey with a grip from which O’Hare swore he could hear cracking bones.
“General. May I introduce my Second? Major Padraigh O’Hare.”
“You may, you may.”
O’Hare’s hand received the same treatment. Then Livermore turned to his Secretary, who, within the presence of his Senior showed more animation than he had shown all day.
“Wilson. No more appointments today. I’ll be at my Club with these two Gentlemen. We have much to talk about, both past and presen
t.”
He took the arm of both and propelled them to the door, which he himself opened, and then on past the “present arms” salutes of both Coldstreamer sentries.
oOo
It was the first hour of a morning in the best of an English May. Bright clear sun had climbed over the roofs surrounding The Green, and shone bright upon the preparations for a military parade, a parade made more sparkling by the pristine newness of all uniforms there displayed. Officer’s faces shone to match the sun and there was no significant gloom either amongst the men, despite the preparations of hair queues and the return of the hated stocks. The veterans amongst the ranks had spread the word that a Royal Parade always resulted in a double rum ration. That was the subject of conversation as each attended to some other’s hair queue, or laced up a stock, particularly Privates Peters and Stiles of Number Three Company.
“That’s a point. We ‘aven’t tasted rum since the double we got at Scilla.”
“Ah, and not just rum. I’ve heard that today could be a pay day, an’ all.”
“Which is another point. Awarding colours and such from some Royal often results in some bit rxtra from the very Royal coffers.”
“That is something I’ll believe upon seeing.”
Jed Deakin had been listening without identifying. The two were like twins, same size and same voice. He was busy giving a final shine to his musket brass, when he looked up and saw the Colonel walking purposefully in his particular direction, carrying what looked like a scarf and some badges.
“You two! Attention.”
Both sprang up to join Deakin, but Lacey soon stood them easy.
“Deakin.”
“Sir.”
“You’re a Colour Sergeant. Get these sewn on before we march off. This sash goes with it. Do you know the drill?”
“Yes Sir. Seen it many times, but a Colour Sergeant should have a sponson, Sir.”
“We’ll have to dispense with that. You have your musket. You’ll march in the Colour Party. After me on the way to, out in front after it’s done. Clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
Deakin saluted, which Lacey returned, then strode off. Captain Heaviside had been both watching and observing.
“He shall reward every man according to his works. Matthew, 16, Verse 27.”
Deakin stood shocked.
“Yes Sir. I’m sure that would explain it, Sir.”
“I’m sure it would, Colour Sergeant Deakin, but I do feel that your magnificent Badges of Office should be sewn on, as Colonel Lacey said, to fully confirm and display your new standing in the eyes of us all. ‘Every tree is known by his own fruit. Luke, Six, Verse 44.’ Best see to it.”
“Yes Sir.”
He took himself off to Bridie and the family, wearing the sash, but examining the new emblems. Four badges, two being the stripes, two being crossed flags. He was showing the badges to Bridie long before he reached her, and she seized his arm in delight, and then kissed him. Mary O’Keefe ran up and did the same.
“Oh, Uncle Jed. That’s grand.”
“Yes, only we’ve but an hour to get them sewn on.”
Bridie took charge.
“Don’t you worry one little bit, Jed. Me and Mary will take an arm each. It’ll be done in no time. Take off your jacket and put it over your shoulders. Just stand still, it’ll be easier if it’s still on you.”
Deakin did their bidding then both took hold of an empty arm and immediately began cutting away the recently re-sewn, but old, and very faded, Corporal’s stripes. Meanwhile, Colonel Lacey was off on another errand, seeking another. He found him in the Light Company.
“Davey.”
John Davey rose to attention without needing to look; he had recognised his Colonel’s voice.
“Sir.”
“Davey. I’m struggling to put this in a way that can be called diplomatic, so I’ll just say it straight out. You’re a convicted felon, Davey, sentenced to time in the army. Were you anything other, in recognition for your actions back in Scilla, I could recommend you for a Commission, such as is awarded for singular acts of bravery. You know what that means, it would make you an Officer.”
“Yes Sir. I understand.”
“My hands are tied, that is beyond my gift, but what I can do is make you a Chosen Man. That’s one beneath Corporal and on a par with Lance Corporal. I hope you will accept.”
“Accept Sir? Yes Sir. Thank you very much, Sir.”
“Right. Well, here’s your stripe. It goes on your right arm, just above your elbow”
He handed the over the broad white band. Lacey genuinely felt this to be a paltry recognition of so high an act of bravery, he felt that more should be said, but this time on a personal level.
“I understand you have a ……er…… wife back here in England?”
“Yes Sir. My Molly. She’ll be wholly pleased. Sir.”
“And you hope to meet her, here, in the capital?”
“Yes Sir. I’ve sent word, Sir. Parson, I mean Private Sedgwicke, wrote the letter. I’m lookin’ forward to it, Sir, and to see little ‘Tilly.”
“Right. Well. Good luck to you Davey, I’ll leave you to get that sewn on in time for the parade.”
“Yes Sir.”
Davey came to the salute, which was immaculately returned by his Colonel.
oOo
The parade had been stood still for almost an hour, studying the brickwork of the Horse Guards, and being partially entertained by a preening Staff Officer, going about his showy business across the washed and polished flagstones that fronted this most important of military buildings. Mercifully they were stood at ease, the ranks with grounded arms, the Officers with swords point down, both hands folded over the pommel. There was little noise, merely the distant sound of polite conversation that had slowly reduced in volume as each topic was exhausted and others proved difficult to find. The crowd had swollen at first, then drifted away with the absence of the most important of presences. Now, but only the very interested remained, these being family that the hastily written and posted letters had summoned from many and varied parts. The Noon Gun sounded from The Tower, its echo rolling through the streets and across the river and parks to inform the good citizens of the capital that half the day was done. Silence returned, but not for long. Suddenly the band struck up and, over an hour late, an escort of Lifeguards trotted onto the square, helmets, swords and breastplates all painfully reflecting the midday sun. Behind came two huge open landaus, the first, it would seem, full of feathers, the second noticeable for two rigid poles, with the length that was erect in the air thickened by a long leather case for half its length. Both were in the charge of four, what seemed to be, tailor’s mannequins, as rigid as the poles in their charge. After them, yet more burnished Lifeguards.
The whole cavalcade swung around to face the direction from which it had come. From the first landau came the sound of much laughter and giggling, whilst the door of the second swung open from the inside and down stepped two General Officers, one being Livermore, followed by two Majors, these carrying the encased colours. All four fell in on each side of the door of the first landau, the two Generals on one side, the Majors on the other. A foursome Honour Guard.
Two footmen then leaped from the back and one ran to unfold the gleaming black foot rest and the other to open the door, to then stand rigidly with the handle in his custody, partly for fear that it would, by some phenomenon, swing back, but mostly to convey to his Princely Highness, that he was, indeed, holding open the door for his High Prince. This act revealed a collection of glasses and bottles on the floor of the landau. A figure within the coach stood up, or rather a collection of feathers around the arc of a huge bicorne hat elevated itself, then an ample white waist coated stomach presented itself at the opening, then two pudgy hands came forward onto the rails beside the doorway. Finally a mirror bright black dancing shoe placed itself on the first step, followed by another that crunched the pale yellow gravel. At that moment Colonel Lace
y, standing before his men, roared out a command with all the volume he could muster.
“Parade. Atten shun.”
At all sections of the assembled ranks, movement came as arms arrived to the “Order”.
“Parade. Present arms.”
Even more lifting and whirling of polished steel and brass, as the parade, in perfect unison, presented their weapons to His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales. However, this, His Highness, appeared wholly oblivious to what was going on. He was sharing a joke with a female companion, but some words did drift over, which seemed to include, “hush, present, flag, serious.” At last His Highness turned to the parade and all could at last make out a face, albeit at the rear of a mighty collection of sashes, decorations, epaulettes, tassels, feathers, and fringes. He was a tallish man, but overindulgence came plainly to mind, both of his frame and of his person. His four escorts sprang to attention plus salute and allowed the decorated figure to pass, before falling in behind as the Prince advanced forward, him knowing enough so that he made straight for the nearest soldier, assuming him to be the Commanding Officer. In this he was correct; Colonel Lacey stood waiting. At five yards distance The Prince came to a halt and turned to the General Officers.
“And who have we here, Livermore?”
“Colonel Lacey, Your Highness. Commanding Officer of the 5th Provisionals.”
The Prince walked up to Lacey, still stood at the “Present Arms”, the lower blade of his sword pressed against his nose.
“Put away your sword, Colonel, you’re making my Lifeguards nervous.”
He grinned widely, and the formality began to fall away, as Lacey sheathed his sword.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 59
