“That’s what I said! Not just a little bit, nor somethin’ that’ll go away. She’s havin’ a baby!”
Deakin’s head sank down to look at the dusty earth beneath his feet.
“When did that happen?”
Bridie hit him with a spoon.
“What are you talkin’ about, you old fool? How do you think babies comes about and who knows which time?”
She allowed the scolding to sink in.
“She’s havin’ a baby, sure enough, an’ that’s what it’s all about!”
Deakin’s mind returned to a measure of sensibility, his face full of worry, but Bridie had changed the subject.
“I’ve some news of my own.”
Now Jed’s face did register deep concern.
“You’re not pregnant!”
She hit him again with the spoon.
“Jasus, no! How often do we sleep under the same blanket for that to happen? No, I’ve got a little position, you might say. Mrs Prudoe the Chaplain’s wife, she’s asked me to be her servant, sort of like. It’ll not be much, and will not take me away too much, but it’ll mean a bit of coin and some extras, I daresay. She does her own cookin’, but she needs me, us, for washin’ and mendin’, sort of thing. So…..”
But Jed broke in.
“Us?”
“Yes. Me and the children. ’Specially Eirin. She could practically do the whole thing herself, but it’s myself that’s best at the mendin’, although she’s comin’ on.”
She looked into the pot, now steaming.
“When this lot comes to the simmer, someone’ll have to take over the stirrin’. I’ve got to be off and see what needs doin’ with her. Beatrice she’s called, an’ she’s a very nice lady.”
She held the spoon vertical in the pot, poised there by one finger, looking querulously at Jed. The intimation was clear; Jed should take over. He exhaled a long sigh, took the spoon and eased the uncooked ingredients around the iron pot.
“Right, I’ll be over there, by that wagon. Not far.”
Deakin looked over to see Sedgwicke unloading the Chaplain’s few items of furniture. He nodded his last words to Bridie.
“Then we’ll see you later?”
“You will. I’ll be back to finish the stew and warm up some bread. You’ll see.”
The look on her face and the smile in her eyes took away the last shreds of any ill temper as he watched her gather the two eldest, Eirin and Patrick and take them over to the Chaplain’s camp. His attention was brought away by the return of Joe Pike and Mary and Deakin was struck by the competing emotions that passed across the young man’s face, a contest between deepest anxiety and the fullest elation. Mary sat beside him, seemingly consumed mostly by the former.
***
The day after the rest day, that being the 19th, orders arrived, read out by Ellis to the assembled company, in the early morning.
“Army to be ready to march and engage the enemy on the morrow. All men to be in the fullest state of readiness and preparation.”
He looked at the blank faces.
“Dismiss and see to it! I’ll be checkin’, be certain.”
Nothing was to escape examination, from the stitching of every pack strap to the greasing of the artillery wheels, and thus, all through the day, every soldier was inspected and issued with all that would be required for another battle. Rumours abounded that the main French army was marching up from Lisbon. As usual Ellis inspected Miles himself, but it was neither as detailed nor as irksome to Miles as the previous, but Ellis did pull off Miles shako and examine it carefully. After examining the stitching he nodded and grunted.
“There’ll be a damn sight more damage like this on all of us, afore this lot’s done!”
With that, he thrust the shako back against Miles’ chest and walked on, leaving Miles feeling more than slightly appeased. There had been nothing extra, nor insulting, about his examination. Ellis had done the job he was ordered to do and that was that.
The following day, as they had when leaving Mondego, Fane’s Brigade led off, with the Light Company of the 105th together with the four Companies of the 95th, alternating picket with the full 60th, these now being first out, spread before the advancing army. The followers of each Brigade were allowed to immediately join the end of their own Battalion column and they did, the other Brigades then joining on the road in their own allotted place. The day was hot and all soon began to suffer, especially those with wounds that were painful, yet not so bad as to give them excuse for falling out from the column. Veterans helped where they could and luckily, there were several streams on their route where sympathetic NCOs allowed men to fall out and wet neck cloths and bandanas to help with the dressings and ease the incessant heat upon necks and shoulders, thus many limped on, holding their place as best they could.
Beatrice Prudoe had asked, or perhaps more accurately, allowed Bridie’s children to ride in the wagon when they grew tired, on the pretext that she needed their help within it’s comfortable confines when arranging the personal affects of herself and her husband. It was her first meeting with the likes of the Mulcahy family and she had been uncertain as to what to expect, but she had been pleased, almost delighted. Eirin was what she was, a girl grown up quick to meet the needs of a soldier’s family, but she was pleasant and respectful and not without initiative. Patrick and Kevin were two boys, full of energy that emerged when allowed, but most often terrified in the company of such as her husband, the stern and lugubrious Chaplain Prudoe. However, they were polite enough to her, but, unbeknown to Beatrice, both were under the strictest instructions from Bridie regarding their behaviour. Thus charmed, Beatrice decided to undertake some education of the four. The youngest, Sinead, was barely able to carry water, but she seemed the brightest of the four, and so it began, in the back of the jolting wagon, on a slate with a piece of chalk. Eirin well knew her role - to please her mistress and so she absorbed all as quickly as she could; it was important to show willing, which she well realised. The boys, unsurprisingly, struggled, but Sinead made progress almost as quickly as Eirin, to the delight of Mrs. Prudoe, but to the strong disapproval of her husband who saw little point in her schooling endeavours. When the children were gone, he, sat at the front with Sedgwicke, had inevitably overheard the lesson.
“I fail to see, my Dear, why you give your concern to the whole business. I am of the firm opinion that, as long as they can commit their prayers to memory, that will be fully sufficient. Book learning and the ability to read can only disturb their inner equilibrium, which I would regard as a cruelty. Besides, I very much doubt that they have the capacity to achieve such. I do wish that you would desist!”
Beatrice smiled and pretended not to hear, whilst examining the words each had formed on the slate. Sedgwicke, holding the reigns, had heard all, and felt inclined and capable, even justified, to give his own opinion, born from his own experience.
“If I may, Sir, I myself taught the daughter of one of the men, Chosen Man Davey of the Light Company, and I found her to be a gifted and astute pupil. A pleasure to teach! She remains back in England and I do hope that someone is now helping her to continue with her studies. She could practically read, write, and cipher as well as any full time scholar at most schools!”
He was referring back to the time when he taught Tilly, John Davey’s adopted daughter, but Chaplain Prudoe, having given his opinion, was not to be gainsaid.
“I’m sure you’re wrong over that, Private. You were overcome by the minor success that you did have. The very idea of achieving a standard that will enable independent study is quite beyond them, I feel sure.”
The downturn in Prudoe’s voice at the end of the sentence showed that Prudoe was set and firm in a verdict pontifically delivered. Sedgwicke, for his part, felt annoyed that his own experience should be discarded in so offhand a manner and he straightened his back and lifted his head to make reply, but Prudoe raised his own hand in rebuff.
“No! I’ll not hear another word. My wife c
an indulge herself if she chooses, but I find myself in total disagreement with your judgment. And, what’s more, you are not to include yourself in this foolish exercise. I do hope that is plain, Private Sedgwicke.”
The stern use of his formal title told Sedgwicke all he needed to know regarding the requirements of his superior Officer. He flicked the reigns and held his peace, whilst seething inside at the cursory dismissal of his own opinion that was, what is more, supported by evidence, as he saw it. The wagon rumbled on, jerking all from side to side.
Meanwhile, there was discussion elsewhere amongst the 105th. Davey, Pike, Miles and Byford were marching in their column, just reformed from their turn out on picket. It was Davey who opened the discussion.
“So what’s the verdict about the Johnnies at Rolica, just passed? They gave it a better go than at Maida, I’d say. What from you two veterans?”
He was referring to Miles and Byford and the former looked across to Byford and received back a blank look, this being wholly typical of him, content to remain in the background. Therefore Miles formed his own opinion.
“I’d say true. They took a damn sight more shiftin’ than that tassle swingin’ crew what took off after no more’n three volleys!”
He looked at Byford.
“What were they called, Byfe?”
“Voltiguers. Light Infantry, like us.”
Davey joined in.
“Only better dressed!”
Miles paused to allow himself a nod or two.
“But, yes, I’d say this lot of Frenchers is a cut above what we saw the backs of in Sicily.”
Davey turned to look at Miles, changing the subject.
“You goin’ to get another Frencher backpack, like last time, back then,Tom?”
“You’re damn right I am! Couldn’t get one from the last go, ‘cos I ‘ad to worry about findin’ an’ stitchin’ up this damn shako. Yes, I do fancy havin’ a good cowhide job that’ll stand up, what won’t come apart over the next few months. We’n here for some time, I fancy, in no easy set up.”
He paused and looked at all three.
“If I were you, I’d do the same. King George’s don’t last much more than one soakin’, and then where are you? Havin’ to carry your kit in a cloth bundle.”
He paused, his face written over with further productive thoughts.
“An’ a pair of Frencher boots an all, if I can find some as fits!”
He nodded and smiled, satisfied at the unassailable wisdom of his experienced words. Joe Pike said nothing, but, instead, fingered the wound on the side of his head. It was healing, but still disconcertingly deep and he winced as his finger found the deepest part.
***
Evening found them in the rounded hills around Vimeiro, a place practically on the coast and the reason for Wellesley’s choice became clear on the following day, as the 105th sat in their camp beside the road that ran between the sea and the village itself. Unknown to them, a disembarkation was taking place, similar to their own at Mondego; Wellesley was being reinforced and the first the men of the 105th knew of it was when the first column came marching up through the gap in the hills which held the road that led up from the beach. Lounging at their ease and unoccupied, the three, Miles, Davey and Pike, decided to take themselves down there and watch proceedings. Perhaps some of these newcomers would be spilled into the water as they had been themselves, here was perhaps some entertainment. However, they had not gone 20 yards before they were observed by Sergeant Major Gibney.
“Thee three! Hold fast! Wheers tha’ think tha’s goin’? Hold there, no farther.”
Miles was the first to think of anything like a plausible reply and began waving his canteen.”
“Off to fill our canteens, Sar’ Major. We’ve all run dry.”
Gibney produced his best fume, his face reddening.”
“Down stream! Full of all the filth from camp! Get th’sens back, and sharp, and not let me see thee down this way again. Back! “
But Miles had not surrendered the fight.
“There’s a spring as comes out the rock, Sar’ Major. That’s pure, an’ we’n all hankerin’ after some good water! “
Gibney was now near and towering over all.
“Water from the butt’s gradely enough for thee! That’s pure, ah knows that because ah sees over the fetchin’ of it m’sen. Back t’camp at thy ……..”
The order tailed off. Gibney could see the road, whilst the three had their backs to it. He paused, silent, his eyes growing wide in surprise, then anger. He raised his arm to point, then produced his best bellow.
“Thee! Ont’ road. Halt”
The order, delivered at such volume, would have halted a Regiment, but the five it was intended for stopped immediately. Gibney strode onto the road, the eyes of Davey and the others, now fascinated, following his progress, then they turned bodily to see the object of his attention and surprise grew on their own faces. They had recognised the fifth member of the party, for he was a prisoner, the other four an escort. Gibney placed himself before them on the road and addressed the leader of the party, a Corporal.
“And wheer’s thee takin’ this ‘un?”
The Corporal reached into his pocket and produced his orders. He couldn’t read them, he could only assume that Gibney could, but it would only be to confirm what he now said.
“This is a prisoner, Sar’ Major, a deserter, sent out here, rather than hung, is my guess. I’d say his size’ve saved him from the rope. Seth Tiley’s ‘is name, I’m to get him to the 105th Wessex, 5th Provisionals as was. Can you help, Sar’ Major?”
Gibney looked at the prisoner, a level look, for both were of equal stature. Seth Tiley was a huge man, large in every component bar his eyes that were small, set back and mean. Hatred and loathing burned within both, but Cyrus Gibney had seen all of such before and was well capable of matching any level of malevolence with interest. He stood and grinned, imitating the perverse pleasure of a gaoler or even a hangman, someone who thoroughly enjoyed their line of work, which he was about to embark on.
“Seth Tiley! An’ what evil doin’s has thee be aboot, eh? ‘Oo’s tha’ robbed, even murdered, since tha’ absconded? Eh?”
Tiley’s response was to spit on the ground, to immediately be clubbed in the back by the musket butts of the two escorts behind. They had no liking for their huge, menacing prisoner, a known criminal and deserter. Tiley staggered forward, but soon regained his balance, but Gibney remained as he was, grinning with evil pleasure.
“Well, now tha’s back amongst us, we’d best get thee on t’Colonel, an’ we’ll see what fate he’s a mind to bestow upon thee.”
He turned to the Corporal.
“I’ll take ‘im. Does thee need anythin’ signin’?”
The Corporal was as intimidated by Gibney as he was at the thought of Tiley breaking free, so passing him on equalled the relief of escaping a punishment of some sort on himself. He thrust the document forward and fished a pencil from his jacket pocket. Still grinning maliciously at Tiley, Gibney took the pencil and accurately signed his name, precisely in the required place. The Corporal stuffed the paper into his pocket and held out the rope that led from Tiley’s hands for Gibney to take, but Gibney made no move, merely to continue to return Tiley’s look of hatred with equal intensity. Gibney took one pace forward, seized Tiley’s shirt and yanked it open to reveal a burned in brand, just healing.
“D! Deserter! What else?”
There was no change in Tiley, not even when Gibney pushed him back as he closed his shirt. After a second or two, Gibney motioned to the three, still stood watching. Naming no-one, he motioned them forward.
“Take the rope. Bring ‘im wi’ me.”
It was Miles who moved the quickest. He had his own score to settle with Tiley and he placed himself squarely before the giant felon as the escort scuttled off. Although Tom Miles barely came to Tiley’s breastbone, size meant little to him. He looked up into Tiley’s eyes, his own expres
sion conveying all the malice he could combine together.
“Tiley. I’ve not forgot what you did to Joe Farley. Never got over it, he didn’t. Now he’s back with his family, an’ not much use for nuthin!”
Miles checked that Gibney was now out of earshot, then he closed right up to Tiley’s face, pulling the rope down in the hope of lowering Tiley’s head. It did not but it made no difference to what came next.
“You piece of shite! A strong word of warning, don’t you go puttin’ yourself in front the muzzle of my musket. Front or side, I’ll blow the backbone out of you, and piss down the ‘ole they stuffs you in!”
With that he gave the rope a vicious tug and Tiley obediently followed, with Davey and Pike either side. All three had their own memories of Tiley; Miles, when he was escort to the group of prisoners from whom Tiley had attempted an escape, which had included Sedgwicke and Davey, and Pike, who had been near to fainting when Tiley was flogged for that very offence. With Gibney now some way ahead, Miles pulled the rope hard for them to catch up and, when there was no response, Davey did not hesitate to give Tiley a shove in the back. He felt no affinity with him, even though he had been sentenced at the same Assize Court as himself, because, to Davey, Tiley was a thief and a murderer, who preyed on everyone, rich or poor, weak or able. Given the chance, had he not been caught again, he could have attacked Davey’s own family, pounding any who resisted with his huge fists and escaping with whatever he chose and could carry.
They progressed through the camp and many came forward to watch, whilst those who did not, looked up from their chores to see the return of Seth Tiley, the unmistakable figure from their time at Taunton Barracks. Colonel Lacey had his headquarters under a large oak tree, there for shade from the sun, and the disturbance caused him to look up from his papers and drop the quill into the inkpot. He then sat with his fingers poised together, watching the procession behind Gibney. He was as astonished as anyone when he recognised Tiley, the man he had caused to be flogged and who had escaped during their march to Weymouth, en route to Sicily. Some yards from the Colonel’s table, Gibney took the rope from Miles and spoke words to all three that they were staggered to hear.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 10