oOo
As part of Stewart’s Brigade, the 105th marched straight through Abrantes to camp in the fields beyond, and soon, all around the ancient and picturesque town, the fields were filled with the constituent parts of Wellesley’s army, his battalions, his artillery and his supply train. However, for Deakin and his companions the days that followed were marked by the return of hunger. The supply wagons that had arrived on the final days of their march proved to be a ‘one-off’ event and Abrantes was too small to have enough stocks of food for a whole army. Soon the complaints began, each to another, such as Carravoy complaining about being served horse-meat of wholly suspect provenance, but the complaints that mattered were those that reached Wellesley’s ears from the local Junta, complaining about robbery and theft. The next day saw the return of the Provosts, their numbers swelled by men from the 3rd Dragoon Guards, five Dragoons under the command of one of the Provosts, this measure intended to reduce the risk of bribery within the less trusted Dragoon Guards.
However, within three days supplies did appear, arriving by the almost unique method of being hauled up the Tagus on flat bottomed barges. The complaints of the local Juntas lessened in direct proportion to the reducing hunger felt by the army and supplies arrived regularly by this very reliable method of river transport. In fact, each day a full variety of materiel arrived, evidently the supplies for a forthcoming campaign. One evening, Stewart invited his three Colonels and their Senior Majors to dinner at the Casa of a local merchant. This local worthy had complained as loudly as anyone during the time of theft, but he knew full well the value of this Allied army keeping the French away from his home, also from his warehouses, albeit the fact that they were now empty and that he had been paid top price to make it so. Thus all the hospitality was at his expense.
O’Hare had made his excuses, some kind of fever, ‘had it on and off since Africa with Abercrombie’, and so Carr attended in his stead. The room was classic Portuguese, low ceiling, mostly of blackened beams, thick white walls, their expanse broken just correctly by shallow alcoves, the whole deep within the house to escape the summer heat, which even at that time of the evening was felt in the deep and narrow streets outside. The evening was relaxed but flat, all with minds still subdued by the relief of the hard march just ended and their arrival into the town. However, with the arrival of the nuts and port the talk turned to military matters but the topic did not last long, Carr delivering the one telling phrase that seemed to both begin and end the discussion concerning the merits of their French opponents.
“They’ve not stood well against us! Not once, from Rolica ‘till now. It’s only numbers that prevents us from pushing them right back to Madrid and beyond.”
No-one could gainsay such an opinion and so Stewart finished the evening by speaking of the main reason why they were there.
“Wellesley’s re-organised his army and we’re parting company.”
He looked at Ruskin.
“You’re going back to Portugal. All Portuguese troops are being trained and re-armed and such as yours will be the backbone of a new Portuguese Army.”
Next, to Burns.
“You’re staying with me, but yours, Lacey, are now in Mackenzie’s Brigade. Donkin’s Brigade is with you in your Division, but Mackenzie’s the Divisional Commander.”
He reached for the port.
“Not that this stuff quite fits the bill as would guid scotch, but it’ll have tae do.”
He filled each glass to the brim, seven, including his own, then he raised the fine, cut glass containing the dark red liquid to shoulder height, circling his hand around the table in the direction of them all.
“Guid luck! Slange.”
All drank and then quickly left into the warm night, Lacey and Carr with the most to ponder.
“Have you heard of him, Henry?”
“No, Sir, other than his name, Alexander Mackenzie. He wasn’t at Oporto; his Division was sent to here and so stayed out of it. As to the sort of person he is Sir, I’ve little idea.”
The next day, early, they found out, Mackenzie riding alone up to Lacey’s tent and requiring Sergeant Bryce, Lacey’s secretary, to enter the tent and request his Colonel to come out. What Lacey saw was a cadaverous face, lantern jawed, staring down from beneath, in his case, a modest Highland bonnet, his eyes stark, just outside its shade. Mackenzie’s words were acerbically brief, spoken in a flat, but profound Highland accent.
“Ah want to inspect yorr men, Colonel. One hour.”
Lacey looked around at the crowded tents.
“Where Sir?”
“You find a place, Colonel and I’ll find you. Never fear.”
With that he turned his horse and required it to walk off, presumably to the next battalion, to order a parade for two hours time. Lacey turned to Bryce.
“Get around the camp! Tell every Officer and Sergeant that you see to ready the men for General’s inspection. Where, they’ll be told in good time.”
By now, Bryce had turned away, but Lacey had another thought.
“Is Major O’Hare still indisposed?”
“Yes Sir, last I saw him.”
“Right. If you see Major Carr, ask him to find me.”
Bryce continued his way in one direction, Lacey in another, but both with the same intent, to stir the camp for a Major General’s inspection and within ten minutes Carr came running up to him, somewhat breathless.
“Sir. You asked for me.”
Lacey, equally breathless from his own exertions, gave a brief reply.
“We need a space for the parade inspection. Find one.”
Lacey looked around, trying to be helpful.
“I’d say over there, that way, there seems to be a little more room between us and the 88th. Look there first.”
Carr saluted and ran off to find that Lacey was correct, almost, because the striking of two tents was required, then there would be a long run of space, in fact all of the 150 yards that were needed. He found the first tent full of Grenadiers, who came to the attention the second he entered.
“Are you all now ready for the inspection?”
A Corporal answered.
“Yes Sir. We were the first to be told.”
“Right! Your tent needs to be moved to give us the run long enough for the parade. Strike your tent now, then store it somewhere in the lines. After, you can bring it back to here.”
With that he was gone, but the Grenadiers were exiting after him to pull out the tent pegs and then carry their canvas home the necessary yards out of the way. In the second tent he found Captain Lord Carravoy and Captain The Honourable Royston D’Villiers. He began in much the same fashion as he had with the Grenadiers.
“I assume you’ve heard of the inspection?”
A nod from both.
“I’m afraid I’ve bad news, your tent is in the way of the only possible parade ground. I’m afraid it will have to be moved. Temporarily.”
This was no easy affair. In the case of the Grenadiers, their tent contained but blankets and their equipment, but for the two Officers it was practically a furnished room, with beds, tables, a desk, collapsible chairs and two lanterns, even, hanging from the apex. Carravoy was immediately incensed.
“And this choice of ground? Yours presumably?”
Carr immediately recognised the acid tone of the reply.
“Yes and no. The Colonel sent me over here and I recognised the possibility. With the removal of your tent and the one of your men, then we will have our parade ground.”
He felt the need to be conciliatory, for these were, after all, brother Officers.
“I’m sorry for the huge inconvenience, but there it is; an order from our new Divisional Commander to hold a parade.”
Carravoy was not mollified, not least because of the inconvenience but also because the instruction came from Carr.
“Why can you not extend the parade the other way and have our tent just off the end, not involved, as it were?”
/> Carr was losing patience, knowing that time was passing and had already passed.
“Not possible, Charles. That would take us into the lines of the 88th. Not possible!”
The reply from Carravoy was wordless, in as much as he went red in the face with anger, but Carr was not far behind.
“Charles! I’ll make it an order if I have to. I’ll not have the Regiment humiliated in the face of our Division. However many men you need to take this damn thing down and then put it back up, with all as was, I’ll arrange. But this has to happen!”
D’Villiers did not like how this was developing and decided to intervene in the best way he could.
“Yes Sir. Thank you for that offer, which we appreciate. Also, if you see our servant, Binns, he should be just outside, if you could send him in, Sir, we would appreciate that, whilst we are packing things up.”
A pause.
“Sir.”
Carr had the reply that he needed, so he nodded his acknowledgment and left, almost colliding with Binns, who had heard all from the other side of the canvas.
“I’m Binns, Sir. I’ll make a start from here.”
With Binns now inside, Carr looked around to see several Grenadiers.
“Attention!”
All within earshot responded and Carr began to point.
“You, you, you and you. Report to your Captain’s tent. He has a job for you.”
A little later, chivvied on by Gibney, the final redcoats had just taken their place in the long line, when Mackenzie appeared, on his horse, from an odd space within the tent lines. He was accompanied by a single Major, as an Aide-de-camp and one Orderly, him on foot. With his appearance, Gibney took over, at more than usual volume.
“Paraaaade!”
All came to order arms, their musket butts tight beside their right leg.
“Parade. Present. Arms.”
In perfect unison the whole 736 men lifted their weapons for the butt to be cupped in their left hand, their right to go below the trigger guard, their left to then go above it and the weapon to be moved in front of their chins and lowered so that their left forearm was parallel to the ground. In unison with their men, the 35 Officers moved their swords to the salute. All was then rigidly still and silent, but for the occasional snap of the two Colours in the gusting breeze. Mackenzie rode up to Lacey and saluted. Lacey, in response, moved his sabre out to the right and then returned it. The General then dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the Orderly and his Major did the same. Mackenzie now stood before Lacey, which showed that he was a little shorter, but still above average height.
“Morning, Colonel. If ye’ll accompany me, we’ll take a walk.”
With that, he walked briskly to his left, followed by Lacey and the Major Aide-de-Camp, to start with the Grenadiers. On reaching their ranks on the far right, he began a slow walk back, neither halting nor speaking. Thus, he soon came to the Colours and then spoke for the first time, but to Heaviside.
“Captain! May I see the Regimental Colour?”
This was odd. A General of his rank would normally do as he liked, but this was clearly a request which acknowledged the practically sacred status of a Battalion’s Colours.
“As you choose, Sir.”
He slightly raised his voice.
“Ensign Neape. Please to lower the Regimental Colour.”
Neape allowed the staff that had been pressed against his nose to tilt forward to the extent that the huge bright green square hung straight down, but not touching the trodden grass. Mackenzie stooped slightly and angled his head, pulling the Colour straight enough with his right hand to read what was there.
“Maida. Vimeiro. Coruna.”
He straightened himself.
“Thank ye, Captain.”
He looked at Heaviside.
“Tough fights, all, ye’d say?”
“Sir. But perhaps not Vimeiro. At least not so much as the other two.”
Then came the inevitable.
“To him that knocketh it shall be opened. Matthew Seven, verse eight.”
Lacey sighed, but Mackenzie smiled.
“There’ll be a few more hard knocks afore we’re done here, Captain. We are not of them who draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul.”
“Amen Sir. Hebrews, 10, 39.”
“Just so. Good luck, Captain.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Mackenzie passed on, again neither speaking nor stopping, until he came to the first of the Light Company, this being the giant Saunders, at his place on the end of the rank as a Corporal. Mackenzie first looked up, then down, to see that Saunder’s weapon was not standard. He turned to Lacey.
“That’s a Baker!”
“Yes Sir.”
Mackenzie looked further along the Light Company.
“They all have Bakers!”
“Yes Sir. Since Maida.”
“How come?”
“I bought them myself, Sir, for the Light Company. Every third man, back then.”
Mackenzie eyes narrowed, for what reason, he did not say, then he turned to Saunders.
“And your opinion?"
Saunders swallowed hard, choosing carefully the words he was about to use to the highest-ranking Officer he had ever spoken to in his entire life.
“’Tis good to have a piece as’ll give us a better chance of downin’ who we aims at, Sir. The more we hits of them, the less there is to send back at us. Sir.”
“So it’s accurate? More so than a musket?”
“Yes Sir. Without a doubt, Sir. We can put ‘em down out of their range for accuracy, Sir.”
Saunders grew in confidence with the progress of the informal conversation and smiled.
“It gives you a better feelin’, Sir, when you’n out there, between the lines. Sort of thing.”
Mackenzie nodded.
“One thing more. Why aren’t ye a Grenadier? Man of yorr size.”
Saunders stock reply to this frequent question was, ‘too intelligent’, but now he used a word he had learned from Byford.
“It was where I was assigned, Sir.”
“But why the Lights?”
“Can’t say Sir. Perhaps the Grenadiers was all full. Sir.”
Lacey intervened.
“He was in the 9th Foot, Sir, the East Norfolks, but they were shipwrecked back in the year five and only 200 survived. They were added to the Provisional Battalion that we were then. He came as a Light. Sir, and no-one thought to change.”
Mackenzie nodded and walked on, perhaps a little more briskly. Soon he was at the end of the ranks, where he saluted Carr, who acknowledged with his sword. Within three more minutes, he was back on his horse, but not yet done, for then he sat forward in his saddle, to draw himself up and raise his voice.
“Men of the 105th !”
He rocked back and forth in his saddle.
“Ye’re guid lads all, I can see that. So too, from what I’ve read on your Colours.”
He paused.
“Ye’re lads for a fight, that’s certain, an’ when it comes, ah’ll be callin’ on ye, be sure, in the days ahead.”
He sat back in his saddle, but still was not finished.
“An’ your pays come up!”
He did not wait to watch the grins and smiles spread across the faces of the front rank, but turned his mount to make his departure.
oOo
The next day saw the promised issue. The two months of January and February were owed prior to leaving England and they had been in Spain a total of 92 days, each day worth one shilling and so, all day, the queue of ‘other ranks’ progressed past the paymaster and almost all day he spoke the same words to each man, unless he were an NCO.
“Seven pounds, eleven shillings, no pence. Less deductions, four pounds, eight shillings and seven pence.”
The coins were scooped up and carefully tipped into a tunic pocket or an upturned shako, before the recipient marched off. That night,
the dice began to roll and Joe Pike was carefully shepherded as he watched the dice players throw the treacherous, as they undoubtedly were for some, cubes of ivory onto a blanket. Thankfully, he made no effort to join in.
Even though monied as they now were, for the 105th, firewood was a more pressing issue. With a whole army, numbers now much increased from Lisbon and in the vicinity of what was little more than a market town, the most frequent sound beyond its low, white buildings, was the chopping of axes in the woods, each day further and further away. All foraging parties passed anxious locals, anxious for their precious olive trees, but none had been touched, because Wellesley still maintained the Provost patrols, well up to strength, still reinforced by the 3rd Dragoon Guards.
It was on just such a trip, late morning, that the six of Davey, Miles, Pike, Saunders, Byford and Bailey encountered their near Battalion neighbours, both parties blessedly not heading for the same tree, but two that were adjacent. As their axes bit in, begun by Pike and Saunders, one of the neighbouring party wandered over and it was immediately obvious that he was Irish, but more Northern than Southern.
“And what Regiment would youse lads be part of, now? You must be Irish, with that shade of green?”
His own collars and cuffs were a pale yellow, this quickly noted by John Davey as he stood to meet the visitor, whilst waiting his turn with the axe.
“No! We’re English. 105th Wessex.”
He allowed a pause.
“And you?”
“88th Connaughts! At your service.”
Davey almost smiled, but he was wary. He had had many dealings with Irish tinkers and diddykites in his previous life and never once had he felt that he had the edge on any deal that he had ever made with them, but he felt the need to be at least welcoming, so he nodded.
“Just come up? From Lisbon?”
The Plains of Talavera Page 15
