Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2)

by Martin McDowell

  “They are the lowest of low priority, Sir. You know, just as much as myself, there could be a French army but an hour away. The army and its needs come first, and who could argue?’

  Lacey made no reply, allowing his silence to speak his agreement.

  ***

  Bridie Mulcahey, Mary O’Keefe, and Nelly Nicholls, the “wives” of Colour Sergeant Jed Deakin and Privates Joe Pike and Henry Nicholls respectively, sat in the dank gloom of their transport, the Chepstow Castle, their place within her closely matching one of the bleakest dungeons of her namesake. For the last pair, the Nicholls alone, their union was “Church blessed”. Above them could be heard the rumbling sounds of barrels being rolled across the decking of the hold above and the shouts of sailors about their business unloading their ship’s charges. Around the three women sat their children; Eirin, Patrick, Kevin and Sinead sat around Bridie, all the children of her previous husband, killed in battle. Sally, Trudie, and Violet sat around Nelly. Mary was newly attached to Joe and childless. Bridie’s children looked upon Jed as their “uncle”, which status he had enjoyed when the family was whole, but he had “taken on” the family when his messmate, Pat Mulcahey, was killed in Sicily, but they all acknowledged him as the head of their family. The children all sat in the dim half-light of the feeble candle, none complaining of their confinement, for all knew the uselessness of such grieving. Their Mothers were powerless to alter their situation by but one iota.

  Bridie and Nelly were veterans of being shipped around to the various far-flung places where their husbands found themselves, but Mary not nearly so much, although she was Bridie’s youngest sister. The two elder “wives” knew enough to be ready to move on the instant that they were called, thus they all had their few precious chattels bundled up or tied into convenient burdens, each of which could be carried by a child, which also applied to the family cooking pot and it’s tripod. This precious item was in the charge of Bridie’s eldest, the seventeen year old Eirin, whilst that belonging to Nelly; she looked after herself.

  Bridie was pleasant featured and well formed, despite the early onset of middle age, brought on by the privations of a life as the follower wife of a serving soldier. Any smile that formed on her mouth was quickly matched by the same light entering her eyes, both still bright green and complementing her dark brown hair. Jed loved her dearly despite their coming together as a matter of pure expediency and there were few in No. 3 Company that did not have a soft spot for Bridie Mulcahy. Nelly Nicholls was a horse of a different colour; in fact the word “horse” would not be misapplied. Her large Irish frame always seemed to be putting undue strain on her clothing and her face carried either a permanent scowl or a look of deep suspicion. Her grey hair, thin for so large a deportment and head, was pulled back, out of the way in a tight bun. Nelly Nicholls was built to last and to carry life’s burdens for both her husband and her children. Few carried any affection for Nelly Nicholls, too many had felt the rough edge of her tongue, but she more than justified her inclusion in the Battalion and many had appreciated the weight of her stern common sense in time of need. Her and Bridie were firm friends, they relied on each other and supported each other as would two messmates on the field of battle. Nelly shared, more keenly than most, a common antipathy for Tom Miles.

  Bridie’s youngest, Sinead Mulcahy, looked at her mother, sat in the gloom, her patient arms wrapped around her precious bundle of possessions.

  “I’m hungry, Ma.”

  Bridie’s response was to smile indulgently and she reached into the soldier’s knapsack that she carried down her right hand side. The tender hand produced two ship’s biscuits and each was carefully broken in two and a half given to each of her children. At this prompting, Nelly did the same but having only three children, she offered the remaining half to Mary who shook her head and so it was returned to the haversack. Mary sat immersed in both the gloom of the room and the gloom of her mood. She was an Irish beauty of the fullest sort, dark chestnut hair with “green eyes and soft brown skin”, words her husband Joe often used to describe her. Mary sat in depression engendered by anxiety, when they were apart, she could never stop worrying about her soldier Joe.

  The door of their compartment opened and the head of an unknown sailor looked around.

  “Not long now, ladies.”

  Then the head was gone and the door closed.

  ***

  The short Portuguese evening had come and was going, the sun falling almost vertically into the horizon. Lacey and O’Hare sat outside their Headquarters tent, although from the languid attitude of each it could have been the terrace of a stately home, but such was far from the means of either. Some ale had come ashore and both gently imbibed from their pewter pint pots, both men plainly, as yet, untroubled by any orders or requirements. Brigadier Henry Fane had not called for his Senior Officers, the word being that Wellesley favoured caution until he knew more of the whereabouts of the French. Therefore Fane was fully occupied with attending Wellesley’s own, higher order, Council of War. Such was the relationship between Lacey and O’Hare that neither had said a word since they sat to watch the descent of the sun into the now tranquil sea, each content to be lulled by the waves that now did no more than lap at a beach fully cleared of all detritus created by the perilous landing. What was still useful salvage was in a stores wagon, what was not, was stoking a cooking fire.

  O’Hare’s head turned seaward, away from regarding the multitude of campfires now giving life to the darkness fully along the length of the beach. He heard, before he saw, more longboats arriving, this being by way of female chatter coming across the dark water; neither raucous nor uncontrolled, but it was nevertheless reaching his ears above the sound of the exhausted waves. He saw a dozen points of light just out from the waters edge, denoting longboats that were bringing the followers ashore, their white oars somehow catching the light off the lingering surf. Soon their wide hulls bit softly into the fine sand and the sailors jumped down to aid their passengers’ disembarkation. Being sailors of the sentimental kind each passenger was lifted from the bows and placed on the water’s edge to stand and either wonder which way to go or to wait for the remainder of their “family”. Soon all were on the sand and the longboats were out on the white of the surf and turning for the journey back. One woman, a shapeless bundle, made more incongruous by the bundles strapped about her, ascended the beach and approached Lacey and O’Hare. She spoke with a full German accent.

  “May you excuse me, your Honours, but are you to know the place of the billets of the 97th The Queen’s Own Germans?”

  Lacey spoke immediately.

  “Die Eigenen Deutsch der Königin. Sie sind zu unserem Recht, nicht zu weit, ich denke.”

  The reply came back, out of the dark.

  “Vielen danke, mein Herr.”

  “Viel Gluck, gutige Dame.”

  The question came from his companion.

  “German?”

  Lacey took a deep breath, the memories were painful.

  “In the American Wars, I had many Hessians under me.”

  O’Hare waited for more on that subject, but none came. He let the subject drop, he had no choice, for his own thoughts were soon interrupted.

  “Ah sure, is that you up there, now, Colonel Sir, speakin’ in some Heathen tongue?”

  O’Hare heard Lacey break into a rolling laugh beside him, then fell to outright laughing himself. Neither could fail to recognise Nelly Nicholls and it was O’Hare who replied, matching the charm that only the Irish could command, including the normally taciturn Mrs. Nicholls, who could call it up as well as anyone, when the situation required.

  “Mrs. Nicholls! Major O’Hare here. The top of this fine evening to youse, and to your fine family. ‘Tis pleased we all are to see you safely here on shore and dry land. Thanks to the Good Lord.”

  “Thanks indeed to Him, and I thank you for your warm welcome, Major, but would you be knowin’ the direction which we should take to find our husbands?
”

  O’Hare was about to answer when a lamp described a course down to the beach from behind and to the right. It stopped six yards from the seated Officers.

  “Perhaps I can help, Sir. I saw the boats coming ashore and I divined their purpose. I can help these ladies, Sir.”

  Both Lacey and O’Hare immediately recognised the cultured voice of their ex-Cleric, Percival “Parson” Sedgwicke, once Vicar to his own Parish, then a convicted felon, then a “King’s hard bargain” sentenced to serve in the Army, then a storesman, now Chaplain’s Assistant. This time it was Lacey who answered.

  “Sedgwicke?”

  “Sir.”

  “You know the way?”

  “Yes Sir, I think I have each Company placed, the Grenadiers are nearest, then each Company in order, then….”

  “Yes, Sedgwicke, yes. Do the job, with my blessing. See these good ladies into the company of their good men.”

  The lamp quivered as Sedgwicke saluted in the dark and then it resumed its course to the waiting camp followers. Sedgwicke’s voice had been recognised.

  “Parson, me darlin’! Now there’s kind to bring down a lamp and see us all safe and well and put amongst our dear husbands.”

  The lamp spoke.

  “This way, ladies. The Grenadiers are first, and just up here.”

  The tramp of many feet across the sand and shingle spoke the end of the conversations and dim figures, little more than silhouettes against the fluorescent surf, passed across their Officers’ front, but it was Bridie who spoke the last.

  “Good night to you both, Sirs. God’s blessing”

  Lacey replied.

  “God’s Blessing on us all and a good night.”

  The sound of the small waves regained their pre-eminence and the short silence did not last long, soon broken by Lacey. The humour and kindliness of the encounter had passed.

  “Rum fellow, that Sedgwicke!”

  O’Hare felt more sympathetic.

  “Odd cove he was, for sure, but the men like him, fish out of water even though he may be. He’s found his place, grant him credit for that. And shouldn’t our Chaplain be about a job such as that, helping the wives and children find their way?”

  “For now I’ll give Chaplain Prudoe the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he’s attending to the Spiritual needs of the men; that would take precedence, at least in my view.”

  O’Hare took a drink from his tankard; he had his doubts. However, at this moment, his doubts were unjust, for the Reverend Leviticus Prudoe and his good wife Beatrice were at that moment conducting a Service of Evensong for a substantial group of soldiers, a mixed congregation from a mixture of regiments. Their quiet singing could be heard from further down the beach, but they knew not to give Prudoe credit for it. Meanwhile, the three women had found their men and the joining together of each with their man was marked by three different degrees of affection, Mary flung herself on top of Joe, much to the amusement of Joe’s messmates, Bridie sat close and snug up to Jed, and Nelly inquired of Henry if they’d had their rations and why wasn’t there a better fire, ‘Sure, wasn’t there plenty of driftwood!’

  The day was dying, nearly out. The British Army of Portugal was ashore, with its guns, horses, supplies and minimal casualties amongst the men. Soon but one tent showed a lantern through its thick canvas, the largest, Wellesley’s headquarters, still debating the best course of action and digesting reports, English, Spanish, and Portuguese.

  Guarding all atop the dune, Chosen Man John Davey held his spotless Baker rifle in the crook of his arm and pondered on his own circumstances within his able but uneducated mind, whilst allowing his poacher’s hearing to subconsciously take over his sentry duties. He reflected on his own woman, Molly, her daughter Tilly and their son John, and one thought gladdened his musings. All three were safe back in England with his own mother and sisters, on a smallholding which they owned outright, every inch, bought with prize money that Davey had won in the fight ring. He looked out into the blackness of the Portuguese night, no point of light, not one, not even from the hovels on the point of the estuary. It gave him a chilling sense of foreboding, to stare out into the sepulchral stillness of the black night, black, like the beckoning of the grave. He heard a cry as of a baby in distress, but knew it to be a rabbit at the point of execution, a fox probably, they rarely made a quick kill. The thought further depressed his mood. He knew enough to place himself accurately on the surface of Europe and also enough to know that this particular piece of soldiering would only end when they marched through Paris and he knew enough to place that event, if at all, far, far into the future. Or, alternatively, it could end if they suffered severe defeat and he was killed, captured, or lucky enough to be evacuated. He eased his Baker in the crook of his arm and sighed.

  The breath was barely out of his body when his alert hearing detected rattling pebbles over to his right and behind. The Baker came up and was cocked in one movement.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  At the same time as the reply, Captain Heaviside came out of the dark.

  “Heaviside. 3rd Company. 105th Foot.”

  But Davey had not finished.

  “Advance Captain Heaviside and be recognised.”

  Heaviside continued forward without a pause, despite the bayoneted muzzle pointed menacingly in his direction. Soon the threat turned to an immaculate “present arms”.

  “Captain Heaviside, Sir. All’s well.”

  “Be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord. First Corinthians, 15, verse 58.”

  Davey had little experience of Heaviside and his inevitable Bible quotes, but he knew one thing, that if an Officer of King George told you that black was blue, there was only one possible response.

  “Yes Sir.”

  Heaviside returned the salute as formally as it was given, then continued on, into the silence beyond the dunes. He was carrying his small “prayer” bundle, his Bible, his plain crucifix and pictures of his wife and two children. Satisfied that he was beyond hearing, he sank to his knees and arranged the four items. He then began the prayer that he had been composing all day and, all the while, creatures of the night, scurrying home, gave no pause to hear the grave and sonorous intonations of Captain Joshua Heaviside praying to the God he loved, for the protection of the people he loved and the offering of his own life in the coming conflict if it would keep them safe. Now that the 105th had their own Chaplain, he could have joined him, the Chaplain that, coincidentally to Heaviside’s lone ceremony, mumbled his own prayers to end the day beside the kneeling figure of his wife. However, the devout Heaviside had little time for the religion as practiced by Chaplain Prudoe, with its glorious vestments, choking incense, heavy serving vessels and writhing Christs upon their crosses. All appallingly Roman! He found the plain, empty space before him to be a superior, and more profound, church.

  ***

  A marching army appears of a length that defies explanation and also strikes any observer as also surprising in its varied composition, it being made up from the widest possibilities of army life. First, the Light Cavalry, vigorous and deeply suspicious, riding hither and thither, investigating anything that could be the first signs of the enemy, these perhaps waiting in position or, more likely, out scouting, as they were themselves. Then comes the Light Infantry screen, in this case the 95th Rifles, green clad and every one a lean, hard eyed man, walking with a confident and easy gait. They were the best the army had and they knew it. Next came the infantry, the Line Battalions, endless columns of fours, then, as the final ingredient of what may be described as the active component, the artillery. However, the whole of this length was then doubled by supply wagons, in this case an Irish Wagon Train, then the camp followers, these latter achieving their progress in marked contrast to their menfolk held within the formality of their Regimental columns further at the front. The followers walked as if in holiday mood, always noisy and always animated, with various bunches of women and child
ren, forming and dissolving according to the changes in the needs of the moment and the topics of conversation.

  For the Line Battalions, if they were formally marching in step and possibly with a band also playing, this depended on where they were. If they were in open country, then the men were allowed to walk at their ease, required merely to hold their place, with the fifes and drums back somewhere in the rear of their column. If the army neared a town or large village, then, as often as not, the men would be called to order, the colours uncased and the bandsmen advanced. A bit of show for the locals never came amiss, for perhaps some recruits may even be gained, taken in by the brazen colours, the uplifting music and the smart uniforms.

  Thus in this way, in a barren countryside, this moving army displayed the track of its progress; its serpentine length disappearing back into the dust, the distance, and the shimmering heat of a Portuguese summer. Wellesley had not ordered a march for the day following their landing, nor even the day after that. Having landed on the 1st August, the march South to Lisbon did not begin until the 5th, four days later. Lacey and O’Hare did meet their Brigadier, Henry Fane, but not in any formal manner. He, a gentle, depressed Scotsman, had taken the trouble to call on them and issued orders to be ready to march at two day’s notice. This was met with pleasant surprise, for it meant a more permanent camp, therefore a few extra comforts, extra to that afforded by the requirement of perhaps moving within the hour. Fane felt able to pass on, that Wellesley was in deep disagreement with the Portuguese; they were insisting on the British joining them far inland before beginning the march South, for there the Portuguese Generals felt safer, the reason being that further inland there were many good defensible positions, where their customary annihilation at the hands of the French, at least, could be avoided. Fane added his firm opinion on the Portuguese, this being that they considered the French to be invincible. Wellesley, in his turn, was insisting on marching South close to the coast, where they had the security of their own fleet, always there for a hurried evacuation, were one needed. French numbers were unknown; all that was known was that they were against the veteran Marshal Junot and that his subordinates Generals Dellaborde and Loison were closest to them, their numbers also unknown. Lacey and O’Hare felt grateful to have been made aware of the full picture, but their minds soon turned to the micro business of managing their battalion, in particular, that there were possibly insufficient spare flints.