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

by Martin McDowell

  Those around nodded even more approvingly at their new home, as buckets of water arrived and they set to cleaning and washing, both the barracks and themselves, whilst the cooks, both male and female, lit the cooking fires in the several, well appointed fire-grates. That evening was one of contentment and cheerfulness, born from the end of marching and the good billet they were in. Fiddles and squeeze-boxes appeared in many rooms to start off the singsongs and dancing; so all was good humour with the 105th, likewise for the Officers. Byford was correct, this had been the accommodation of the Imperial Guard, therefore the provision for the Officers was also of the highest order, enabling all the Officers of all three Regiments to dine together, in uproarious fashion, for their first night there. For these, fresh food of good quality had been purchased down in the town, whilst the men dined on common rations, but no one minded. For them all, albeit far from home, life could not be much better. Neither, it would seem for the good citizens of Lisbon, for all through that night, even up to the battlements of Fort St. George, came the sounds of singing, dancing, bonfires, and even fireworks, as they celebrated the arrival of their British allies, to finally confirm the liberation of their city from the hated French.

  Breakfast the next day, for all, made full use of supplies purchased down below at the harbour and it was composed of fish stew, brought to them from the fort’s own cookhouse and prepared by the Portuguese cooks. To be enticed to table by the spicey aroma, mingled with that of fresh bread, rekindled the good cheer amongst all, especially when Tom Miles dug in his spoon, to find himself staring at a fish eye.

  “It couldn’t happen to a nicer person,” was the verdict of John Byford. At this Miles immediately took extreme umbrage and attempted to tip the staring organ out onto the table, banging his spoon onto the surface when it showed reluctance to fall away. John Davey told him to keep looking, “You might find an ear.”

  A whole British army was billeted around the city and so patrols from their barracks were not required to go far to cover their allocated area. In fours and sixes, the men walked their nearby streets at leisure, bayonets fixed, but rifles slung over their shoulders, where they generally remained. They could see scant military reason in incessantly wandering up and down the steep alleyways that surrounded Fort St. George, but there was the compensation that it brought them into close proximity with the local girls. This happened especially when their patrol, by pure and natural chance, brought them to the local fountain, where the washing of clothes took place for the families from some way around. It was also a good place to sit, mid patrol, and drink some water, which soon became a beaker of wine, brought out for them from one of the local houses.

  Tom Miles, out with Pike, Byford, Saunders and Bailey, with Chosen Man Davey in charge, were all imbibing in just such fashion and Miles had singled out one particular female, a young, dark haired beauty, not too much adorned, but just enough, with beads, and rings, both in her hair and in her ears. It was not long, as though she were possessed of some sixth sense, before she noticed Miles fixed stare, which produced a knowing, if slightly embarrassed smile. Miles nudged Davey.

  “John. That one there, the one with purple in her skirt, more off to the right.”

  Davey looked and nodded, but his face showed no small amount of worry.

  “Tom! She b’aint no Taunton doxey. You mess with these girls an’ Father will be after thee with a hatchet, or a blunderbuss or somesuch.”

  Miles was in no way deterred.

  “Do ’ee think she’ll do my washin’, if I were to give ’er the coin?”

  Davey looked askance at his awkward messmate.

  “Theece’ll have to mend ’em first! Thee can’t ask no fair maid such as that there, to wash what’s not much more than a set of holes!”

  Chuckles came from all round, but Miles was set on his plan.

  “My kit be sound enough. ’Sides, now, most `tis French. I’ve a mind to run back and get my spare shirt an' drawers. B’ain’t no ’oles in they.”

  Davey looked at him. They could be remaining there for some time; there was no set timetable for their nominal patrols.

  “All right. But bring back coin, so’s we can say we was buyin’ supplies. An’ five minutes only, the fort be just up there aways.”

  He indicated with his head, but Miles had already set down his rifle and was on his way. In less than five minutes he was back, with three shirts. Davey looked at the bundle of washing.

  “Three?”

  “Yes, I got yourn and Zeke’s thur. His’ll make it a worthwhile job.”

  Across the face of the giant Saunders came a look of utter amazement but Miles was onto the next part of his plan.

  “Byfe. What’s the Portuguese for: “Will you wash these; how much”

  Byford thought, and then answered.

  “O ira lave estes. Quanto.”

  Miles looked at him and repeated the words.

  “O ira lave ….. what?”

  “Estes – it means these?”

  “Estes, right, and quanto means how much?”

  “Yes. Now get over there before you forget.”

  With a leery look growing in his eyes, they all watched Miles go over to the girl, carrying the shirts. It seemed as though he had managed the words quite well, for she took each shirt, grinning all the while, and gave each a cursory examination, whilst Miles looked on from close range, taking full advantage. The girl spoke something, but Miles, unsurprisingly, did not understand and so he spread his hands open to show that he did not comprehend. The girl, evidently bright and knowing, shouted the word at him and they could see that it must be a number, for she spread her hands wide three times, with all fingers out. She wanted thirty, of something. Miles, for his part, understood well enough the business of bargaining but that it was not the best response for this occasion, so he pulled out a King George sixpence, the smallest silver coin of the British Realm. The girl looked at the coin, it somewhat on the small side and screwed up her face, to then shake her head. Miles pocketed the coin, to then produce a button, which he handed over. The girl bit into it with her good teeth, concluded that it was silver, then nodded, to speak words which left Miles clueless, which showed, markedly.

  “Amanha. Aqui. Pouco antes de Meio-dia”

  Her response was to shout it at Miles, laughing all the while. Miles, looked across at Byford.

  “Byfe, Did you hear? What she say?”

  “Tomorrow. Here. Just before Noon.”

  Byford paused, to again raise his own voice.

  “And what comes next is obrigado, senhorita.”

  Miles face broke into a broad grin as he spoke the words, his white teeth still showing an idiot grin in his brown face as he returned to his comrades, but only after two or three glances back and the waving of his hand to the girl. Davey was less than impressed.

  “Right, so contact’s been made, but wher’ do you think this is goin’ to go? You could find yerself engaged or fightin’ a whole family, afore this is done.”

  Miles shrugged his shoulders before picking up his rifle and then lifting the sling onto his shoulder. He gave a very self-satisfied grin to himself as he gave the girl one more long look before they moved away, but she was elbow deep in the waters of the fountain.

  “Could be, John, could be, but I’m for chancin’ my arm, an’ don’t forget, tomorrow is Friday night and dancin’ in the square outside the main gate.”

  Still highly pleased with himself, Miles led them all back up the hill to the fort.

  Friday, just after the Noon gun, found Miles returning to his barrack with three very clean shirts, two of which he threw at Davey and Saunders. He was in a very good mood.

  “’S’all right. Thee’ce don’t owe I no coin!”

  It was Saunders who replied.

  “Nothing could be further from my mind!”

  But Miles was lying on his palliasse, twiddling his thumbs and grinning.

  With the sun almost set, torches appeared around the
square and the musicians began to assemble, including several from inside the fort, most wielding fiddles or squeezeboxes. The population gathered, trestle tables were set up for food and two wine barrels were set on cradles, one of white and one of red. Even in the growing dark the colourful national dress of the Portuguese stood out, the men with dark jackets, dark breeches, bright waistbands and white socks, the women with dark jackets, dark skirts and white socks, but the dark of each was offset by livid headscarves, bright shirts and blouses, but especially bright multi-coloured waist shawls. Most of the soldiers in the fort that were interested preferred to watch from the battlements, for many had tried to join in the formation dancing and, unsurprisingly, found it beyond them, them causing such a mix up that they turned the whole affair into chaos. Therefore, most preferred to watch from the best vantage point available the events of the evening, these events being the succession of general dancing, exhibition dancing formations, and professional couples describing a dance which involved a lot of stamping and arms poised in the air, and was solely accompanied by the woman of the pair making rapid clicking with a pair of shallow wooden cups held in her hands.

  To begin, an ancient stood on a barrel to call the moves, the locals formed up, and off they went in a whirl of skirts, scarves, sashes and flouncy sleeves. Miles was in the square, amongst the crowd, along with a deeply anxious John Davey, Ezekiel Saunders and Len Bailey; Joe Pike was up on the battlements entwined with Mary. It was not long, but a few dances, before Miles saw the object of his desires and he went straight over and made a very reasonable fist of bowing and inviting the girl to dance by holding out his arm. She, highly amused at this exhibitionist soldier, accepted and they joined the lines, where Miles, much to the relief of John Davey, essayed a good performance that caused little confusion and did not require much prompting nor pushing from the fellow dancers. At the finish Miles was stood before the girl looking very pleased with himself, when next came something that they had not seen before. The band dissolved from the stage simultaneously to the arrival of some kind of hobbyhorse, carried shoulder high by four burly men. Simultaneously, a kind of gallows arrived and at the end of the horizontal was a multi-coloured ball, but what it was made of could not be discerned in the poor light around the square, however, it did shine bright in the yellow torchlight.

  The purpose of all soon became clear, when the young bloods of the neighbourhood each climbed aboard the horse to be lifted up, so that they could, at full stretch, reach the ball with what looked like a heavy spoon. However, the bearers were not at all accommodating towards their rider. They seemed well practised and thoroughly co-ordinated in making the task of hitting the ball extremely difficult, by rocking the horse forward and backwards and from side to side, also accelerating up at speed, then stopping. All this gave their rider a much greater concern to avoid falling off, than hitting the ball. Several riders tried, but ended up looking ridiculous, clinging on for dear life, one ending backside uppermost over the front of the horse, another actually sliding under the horse’s belly, before mercifully being lowered to the ground. Miles’ girl was in a state of great excitement, cheering shrilly if a rider actually managed to touch the ball and laughing when they lost their seat.

  Miles decided that this was a most excellent way to create a good impression and so, via much pointing and chest beating, he managed to convey to her that he was going up on the horse. The first that Davey and Saunders knew of what was about to happen was when Miles climbed aboard. Both groaned together.

  “Oh no!”

  The bearers, realising that someone different, even special, was aboard, carried him around the square and the soldiers watching on the battlements, seeing a Redcoat up and “giving it a go” began loud cheering in encouragement. Then the attempt by Miles began. Both Davey and Saunders had groaned aloud because each knew that Miles would try something different, they both knew that he was wiry, strong and doubly cunning. The four bearers trotted Miles up to the gallows, with no twisting and turning, their idea was a sudden stop to send Miles over the front, but that was exactly what he wanted. Before they realised the plan he had in mind, it was done. He was up and standing on the horse, very perilous, but he maintained his footing just long enough to leap at the ball and hit it a two handed swipe with the spoon. The ball broke from its mooring and partially broke apart to scatter coloured pieces of paper beneath the gallows and over the cheering crowd. Miles had shot over the front of the horse and landed on his feet, to somersault over, whilst still holding the spoon. Davey became even more fretful and pulled Saunders forward.

  “Oh God, he’s broke the rules. They’ll beat the living Christ out of him”

  Davey was wrong. Amidst much exultation, Miles recovered the ball and held it high, showering out more of the contents, then he looked around for his girl. The whole point, as he saw it, was for a lovelorn swain to get the ball for his ladylove and Miles had achieved just that, but he couldn’t see her. Then it all went wrong for Tom Miles. He was immediately seized by the four burlies and many others, for his arms to then be immediately thrust into a marvellously embroidered and ornate coat, which was quickly fastened at the front, despite his loud protests. Still protesting, with much bad language, the frustrated Miles was carried to a very high chair, with two long runners on the feet, to be hoisted onto the shoulders of the burlies again, but now almost twelve feet in the air. He was then paraded around the square, looking more and more frustrated and annoyed, to disappear down one of the main “alleys” that led off from the square, followed by a jubilant crowd, all preceded by a Cleric carrying a large and highly ornate cross, the like of which his three companions had never seen. The last Miles saw of his girl, as he was whirled around the square in triumph for the last time, was her accepting the attentions of what could only be a Rifles Officer, with his green pelisse jacket slung over one shoulder, black leather straps and a very distinctive purple waistband.

  Davey, Saunders and Bailey were each using a tree for support, each almost helpless with laughter. Brushing away the tears, Davey spoke to Bailey.

  “Len, you’d better get in, and tell Ellis what’s happened. Miles’ve been kidnapped to be the main attraction of some religious parade.”

  Almost unable to walk, Bailey left to enter the castle, while Davey spoke to Saunders, both finally getting themselves under control

  “We’d best follow, see that he behaves himself and don’t commit no great doctrinal sin, nor get too drunk, nor start a fight, which could be the most likely.”

  ***

  The French army was arriving, to march immediately through the city and down to the harbour. The role of the British army was twofold, firstly, to clear the streets that led onto the main road down to the harbour, this to keep away any Portuguese intent on vengeful murder and, secondly, to search each soldier for possessions not covered by the Convention. Lacey assembled his Officers and read out the instructions received from Headquarters, reading slowly enough for his audience to write it down, then return to their Companies to read it to their men, who were to undertake the searching. Minutes later Heaviside was stood before his men, assembled all in one crowded barrackroom. He carefully read out Lacey’s words, sonorously and sepulchrally.

  “Soldiers are allowed to retain their own weapons and personal possessions, including a reasonable amount of coin and valuables. We are to look especially for valuables that can only have come from a Church, and valuables that could not possibly have been brought on a campaign; family ornaments, for example. Whatever is confiscated is to be handed over to the Church.”

  He lowered the piece of paper.

  “There shall cleave nought of the cursed thing to thine hand. Deuteronomy 13, verse 17.”

  Soon after hearing his weighty words, Number Three Company were taking their turn, all overseen by their two Ensigns, Rushby and Neape, but, in actuality, supervised by the two Colour Sergeants, Jed Deakin and Harry Bennet. Heaviside and Major Simmonds added their grave presence to dealin
g with the Officers, undertaking the searching of such themselves, but significantly supported by Sergeant Obediah Hill. None would allow any Frenchman to march through without his full belongings being spread out on a table. Such was the hatred towards the French from the Lisbon mob, that, after being searched, the French had to be escorted in small groups down to the harbour by British soldiers, in a ratio of two to one, or the Lisbonese would have broken into the column to tear their erstwhile oppressors limb from limb.

  After the search began, it wasn’t long before a substantial pile of confiscated booty began to grow from both the Officers and other ranks. Any soldier who complained found himself nose to nose with a very angry Jed Deakin, him backed up by a bayoneted musket held by Toby Halfway, then the rest of Number Three Company. Relieved of his booty, the soldier received nothing by way of sympathy other than a jerk of Deakin’s thumb in the direction of the harbour. For the Officers who complained, there was little difference, simply minus the thumb but plus a Bible quote from Heaviside.

  “Whomsoever the Lord our God shall drive out from before us, them will we possess. Judges 11, verse 24.”

  Whether or not the Officer understood made little difference, around mid complaint they received a shove from the musket of Sergeant Obediah Hill, sending them also in the direction of the next group for dispatch to the harbour.

  The 105th were doing a thorough job, but all involved were becoming more aggressive and suspicious as they became incensed at the paltry items that some soldiers claimed as there own; mean and meagre objects that had plainly been looted from the homes of the poor, taking the best that had been there, such as a plain and very unremarkable brass candlestick which was discovered in the backpack of a Voltiguer, him identified by the gaudy tassel still swinging besides his shako. Deakin seized the trivial item and slammed it down onto the table, then thrust his face but inches from the now uneasy Frenchman.