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

by Martin McDowell

  Miles scowled, pushed the man harder back against the rail, then released him. Meanwhile Davey had calculated the full price and, under the watchful eye of the herder, was carefully counting out the tokens, stamped out discs of metal that had become a currency since the arrival of the British. He came to 132. The herder grinned, showing uneven brown teeth, which made the grin more sinister than benign, as Davey handed the tokens over. Meanwhile Miles was handing two of the mule halters to the Cacadore, at the same time treating him to as malignant a look as he would receive for the rest of his days. Taking two each, the three began their climb back up to Fort St. George, each pulling their pair of mules

  .

  Lugging their charges back up through the narrow alleys proved tiring and difficult, the mules often baulking at odd, illogical, places, but they eventually perked up and almost ran forward, to enter the square with the fountain, the one which served as the local wash-house. The mules ran to drink and soon their muzzles were in the cool water. The three allowed them to drink their fill, whilst Davey nodded knowingly.

  “I bet they Portugee didn’t give these a drink all the way down.”

  Miles nodded.

  “I’m sayin’ you’m right.”

  The mules were still drinking when into the square, carrying a basket of washing, came the object of Miles’ affections from some weeks previously. Noticing Miles and Davey she swung the basket at her hip coquettishly, which was matched by the look on her face, a sidelong gaze, face slightly down, eyes slightly elevated and an insolent smile on her face. Davey immediately grew very apprehensive, but Miles was, surprisingly, in a very understanding frame if mind. He motioned the Cacadore to them.

  “Tell her we’re soon going off to fight the French in Spain.”

  The Cacadore did so, and it sounded accurate.

  “Ask her name.”

  The answer came back.

  “Consuela.”

  Miles nodded.

  “Consuela?”

  The previous look had gone from her face and, calm and steady, she regarded Miles. He again looked at the Cacadore.

  “Ask her to name my mules!”

  The Cacadore laughed, now more at ease, and so did Consuela, but she tilted her head, thought, then replied.

  “Pablo and Paulo.”

  In his turn Miles, smiled and nodded, then pointed to his chest.

  “Tom Miles.”

  He leaned forward and took her hand and gently raised it to a height comfortable to hold.

  “Adeus, Consuela.”

  She looked at him steadily.

  “Adeus, Tom Miles.”

  Then, with her other hand she touched his face. Miles released her hand and gathered the two tethers of Paulo and Pablo then pulled both from the fountain. With a last wave of his hand he pulled them into the alley out of the square back to Fort St. George, followed by Davey and the Cacadore, each pulling theirs. Once in an alley, Davey spoke out.

  “That was very gallant! I didn’t know you had such as that in you!”

  Miles turned to show a look of mock annoyance at such a judgment.

  “Oh, I can turn it on, when I feels the need to!”

  Meanwhile, above them in the Fort, a conversation of even deeper sentimentality was taking place. Moore had offered all the followers a passage back to England in the transport fleet about to leave and both Jed Deakin and Joe Pike were trying to persuade their women to take the offer. Jed was sat on a chair opposite to one that supported Bridie, him holding both her hands, but making no impact; nevertheless he persisted.

  “Look, I got a bad feelin’ about this one, Bridie. ’Tis pushin’ on for November and we’n off into the mountains and plains, which, from what I’ve heard, b’ain’t no pleasant a place to be come winter. An’ there’s French all over, many more’n we’ve men here, so we could be on for a retreat or such, an’ that’s never too good a set to be in.”

  Bridie continued to shake her head.

  “No Jed, were stayin’, all of us. I don’t want to be stuck back in some rotten old disease ridden barracks, for months, maybe even years, waitin’ for your return. The Lord Knows that even if things gets better, they’ll not ship us back out to be reunited.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him.

  “’Sides, who’ll cook your food and boil your tea? On top, were tied in with Mrs Prudoe. Who’ll look after her? She’s a lovely lady, kind and generous to us all, and I’d no more walk away from her than I’d walk away from you!”

  Deakin gave vent to a deep sigh and nodded, squeezing her hands before releasing them. He spoke resignedly, for he had next to no choice.

  “All right.”

  He looked down, then up, straight into her eyes, his tone serious, even commanding.

  “But I’m tellin’ thee now, you do as I d’tell ’ee! Look to your kit and such. Good boots, good packs and warm clothes. And extra sacks for any food we finds along the way.”

  He looked straight into her eyes and nodded to signify a silent finality, ‘This is how it’s got to be!’

  She leaned forward and kissed him again.

  Joe Pike didn’t even get started, before Mary clung to his neck weeping. Nelly Nicholls at least listened to the first sentence spoken by her Henry before pronouncing her own judgement.

  “And, sure, who’s goin’ to be around to stop you makin’ an eejit pickle of the whole sorry business?”

  ***

  The 105th were amongst the last to leave. The first were Paget’s Division on the 18th October, quickly followed by Beresford’s, both being required to follow circuitous routes up to Salamanca, just over the Spanish border. Fane, before he departed as part of Beresford’s Division, hosted a last dinner with Lacey, Blake, and Webster, the two former now being his ex-Brigade Colonels, Webster was to remain with him, because Fane was keeping the 95th. However, he could add nothing to what Lacey already knew; that the 105th would be amongst the last to leave, probably with Moore himself, after the departure of the central Brigade under Fraser. They knew that Hope was already well out at the border fortress of Elvas, but his route required a huge loop to Madrid and then over to Salamanca; his command including almost all the army’s artillery. Lacey’s querying of the serpentine routes of the army, brought one simple, Scottish, response.

  “Dalrymple didnae do one damn thing to examine the roads to Spain. Nae transport, nae commissariat. A more festie beastie ne’er pulled on a pair of breeks! Moore has to move, knowing little of nae use, if he’s to support the Spanish. There’s nae time for any discovery. Politics requires nae delay.”

  The dinner broke up with each wishing the others well and good fortune.

  The following morning Lacey found O’Hare.

  “How many wagons have we?”

  “Enough for our baggage and whatnot.”

  Lacey looked back at him seriously.

  “Get a spare. At my expense. Load it with any winter clothing you can get your hands on. Anything, blankets, boots, greatcoats. Horse blankets! Anything useful that we took from the French at Vimeiro. It’ll be mouldering in some warehouse somewhere.”

  O’Hare stared back at him, himself now as deadly serious.

  “You think such will be needed?”

  “Odds on. I’ve been through Canadian winters and an extra blanket was too often all that stood between me and freezing to death! Cold’s cold, wherever, and Spanish uplands in winter will be no different.”

  O’Hare turned to leave, but Lacey had not finished, and it brought a broad grin to the Irishman’s face.

  “And it seems the world of drama will be denied your interpretation of Mrs. Mallaprop!”

  O’Hare laughed openly.

  “We’ll count that a blessing!”

  On the morning after Paget and Beresford took the Roman road North to Santarem, Fraser was seen to leave, taking the same road before he diverted away. From the battlements of Fort St. George, the 105th had a grandstand view of the long column of red uniforms, broken by
the green of the 60th, and then followed by the drab brown of their followers and their wagon train. Almost all the Officers of the 105th were up there, all in idle mode, except perhaps Ensign Rushby, the Regimental artist of some repute. He was busy sketching an old woman sat at a stall on the battlements, the table spread with various pastries and confections and she was doing a very good trade. Carr, Drake and Shakeshaft were leaning on their forearms, each in their own crenulations, eating one of her pastries and watching the six battalions inch past, seemingly a crawl from the distance of their high perch. Carr looked over at Drake.

  “Who’s that leave still here?”

  Drake set his pie on the warm stonework and consulted a piece of paper. He had obtained the information for his own personal journal, begun the week before, and he was now up to date. He had begun at their landing in Mondego.

  “Besides Craddock’s lot that remain as garrison, just us and the 6th. And Moore’s Headquarters, of course.”

  Carr nodded, but it was Drake who spoke next.

  “Have you written?”

  Carr pushed himself away from the battlements.

  “Just about to.”

  Frustratingly, their own departure was delayed for several days more. Their Commander in Chief, it was rumoured, but it was mere conjecture, was involved in acrimonious and detailed correspondence with his Spanish allies regarding, not just co-operation in the field, but the amount of supply that Moore could expect from the Spanish as he advanced his army into Spain. However, finally, they were drawn up on the Santarem road, the 105th behind the 6th Royal Warwicks, the followers and baggage of both Regiments tailing behind and away into Lisbon itself. The population of Lisbon, including all those that dwelt in the warren that clung to the slopes beneath the castle, turned out to see them depart. The 105th had lived amongst them for almost six weeks and relationships had stabilised at no small measure of affection. The drums and fifes of the 105th formed up before the Colour Party and they marched off to the inevitable tune of “Brighton Camp”, the popular tune soon being taken up by the 6th some 100 yards before them. The Officers, including Moore, felt buoyant and optimistic, why shouldn’t they? Or so they thought, but the likes of Jed Deakin sang not a note, instead biting hard on his chinstrap.

  Soon they were beyond the autumn bleak Campo, now so familiar to the 105th. The weather immediately turned cold and blustery, slanting showers coming in from across the Tagus and many rolled down the tarpaulin folded at the back of their shako and unstrapped their greatcoats from the tops of their backpacks. Come the end of the day, as the men and their followers prepared their first camp in the open for some weeks, making full use of the shelter afforded by trees, walls and hedges, Lacey and the Colonel of the 6th were invited to Headquarters for dinner. Soon the food proved to be wholly ancillary to the more important topic that Moore wanted to discuss that evening, this being the gathering of extra details of the battle of Vimeiro. Thus, most of the affair was taken with moving knives, forks, spoons and glasses around the table, interspersed with the odd mouthful of food. The 6th had not been called upon to fire a shot at the battle and so Parker, their Colonel, took virtually no part in the discussion and was able to stuff himself from the good dishes, whilst Lacey was plied incessantly with questions to add to what seemed to be Moore’s already considerable knowledge. Moore remained with them but one day more, before riding on, all his entourage well mounted and their baggage all in sound and stable wagons.

  Over the following days the weather did not relent, but the men were in good spirits, they were marching forward, all confident that what they did at Rolica and Vimeiro they could do to any French army they met, even if significantly outnumbered. To Jed Deakin this was all “yes, no, or maybe.” What concerned him most was what could be and that ‘could be’ was as bad as it gets. They were marching through country only just coming back to life with the departure of the French armies who had not long marched through for their evacuation from Lisbon and, on one of the better days, they stopped close to an oakwood. Grazing on the acorns within, released from some pen either near or far, were several pigs. Realising what they were eating, Deakin ordered all of those he could and advised all that he could not, to get into the wood and gather what was a feast for such as pigs, but was emergency rations for an army. The acorns were ripe and plump and soon several bulging haversacks were lodged back with the followers. Needless to say, the messes of Miles and Byford, around a messfire far away from their Officers, dined on illicit roast pork that night and for some days after on the left over joints.

  Lisbon to Salamanca was a march of 250 miles and it was pushing through the days of November before they reached the high plains around the Spanish border fortress of Cuidad Rodrigo, leaving but 50 miles more. The steep walls and deep ditches of the border fortress gave shelter for but one night only, then they were again on the long, direct, Roman road Eastwards. Typically, there was little cheer from the weather; a biting wind skidded unhindered across the open grassland and the dark clouds it often carried invariably meant a soaking, gradually returning the burnt grass to a dull autumn green.

  Gloom arrived in full measure from another source. For those looking onward to the vanishing point of the straight road, they witnessed the gradual reveal of the details of a wagon convoy approaching from the opposite direction, with an Officer of high rank riding before, who appeared from distance to be a Major. Accompanied by Linfield Parker, Colonel of the 6th, at the head of the column, Lacey spurred his horse forward, to pay the required respects. Whilst Parker and Lacey were cheery at the meeting, the response in return was anything but, after the Major had introduced himself as Frederick Vickery.

  “Bad news, have you heard?”

  The faces of both fell as they shook their heads.

  “The Spanish have been smashed at Gammonal and Espinosa! On top, Boney himself is at Burgos, halfway to Madrid.”

  Both Colonels immediately registered shock, but next came dismay.

  “There’s worse. Moore’s army is scattered all over and delayed on the march. Hope and the guns are stuck down South somewhere.”

  His face went blank, marginally better than the yet more gloom he had to impart.

  “If Boney gets over the Samosierra before Hope gets back round to Salamanca, the game’s up! No guns.”

  Lacey and Parker looked at each other, then back at Vickery.

  “What of Moore?”

  “At Salamanca, watching his army arriving in penny packets. Things have not gone well.”

  Both Colonels nodded in agreement, then Parker asked what was of import to them.

  “What are conditions on the road from here?”

  Vickery looked positive for the first time since their meeting.

  “Good! A good chalk road. You’ll make good time.”

  He paused.

  “What of mine, on from here?”

  Vickery answered.

  “Good! All through to Lisbon.”

  Parker smiled.

  “That’s reassuring. These wagons are needed back in Lisbon and then to make a return trip.”

  He reset himself on his horse.

  “That’s army life, no? Nine tenths boredom, one tenth terror!”

  Leaving the two grinning, he saluted and moved his horse on, to lead the wagons of what seemed sick, certainly not wounded, on past the column, down which the news was speeding, that the Spanish were scattered to the winds, that Napoleon himself was at their throats, and that a retreat was imminent. That night, around their campfires, there were Councils of War conducted at various levels. The result of that occurring amongst the Senior Officers of both Regiments was that they had no choice but to advance on and join their Commander in Chief as ordered. Amongst the Regimental Officers, that occurring between Carr and Drake was typical, with Shakeshaft as an audience, the discussion begun by Drake.

  “We’ve no allies! We’re marched into Spain expecting to be part of an allied force and we find ourselves alone. Outnumbered by
the Johnnies led by Boney himself, no less.”

  Carr poked the fire.

  “That we are on our own there’s no doubting. But …….”

  The last word was forceful, then repeated.

  “But, we can at least make a nuisance of ourselves and what we cannot do is just march out. This country is full of good positions to mount a defence, if needed. If his army comes together, Moore will march on.”

  He looked directly at Drake.

  “Boney’s no magician! He sends his men forward just as Junot did, following Boney’s own prescribed tactics, and we sent them back after ten minutes! Moore will give it a go if he can, and I think he’s right.”

  Resignedly, Drake threw some more wood on the fire.

  Back with the followers, Deakin and Pike were asking questions to gain the reassurance they needed, but Bridie soon ended the interrogation by handing over a bowl of stew, containing meaty pork bones.

  “Now hush, eat your stew! We’re as well up together as any can expect. What comes we’ll meet as best we can. We’ve the extra kit and food, so stop worryin’ over what hasn’t come about. When it does, we’ll cope as we always do!”

  They marched on, the road leading on into December, but the apprehension that now hung over the column did not dispel. That is, until they came within sight of the towers of Salamanca itself, for on the road before them was a long red column and, as the briefest of examinations through a telescope would show, all along the column was the unmistakable sight of horse artillery. Having drawn the right conclusion, Lacey turned to Parker.

  “There’s our guns. That must be Hope. Now we’ve only Boney to worry about!”

  ***

  If the cities of Spain were classed as national treasure, then Salamanca would be a major jewel set in a Royal crown. Architecture from centuries past rose assertively on all sides, buildings of worship, learning and culture, not least the two huge cathedrals and the ancient buildings of the university. Neat streets led from the wall gates to a breathtaking square, this with its own impressive buildings, but also footed by a colonnaded walkway, similar to the cloisters of a major monastery but more inspiring still. What was missing were people, several had quit their homes, only too ready to take the time for a controlled exit before the arrival of a French army. They too had heard of the disasters that had befallen their armies at Gammonal and Espinosa and yet another at Tudela and, yet more, Napoleon had forced the pass of the Samosierra, which news had sent Moore into deep depression, partially relieved only by the arrival of the final units of his army. The upper classes of Salamanca, realising that only a small British army stood between them and the avenging French, had fled West and North, leaving many vacant buildings, too small for Companies of infantry, but perfect for Brigade Officers and those smaller still, perfect for groups of followers. Thus they settled in, the spirits of all lifted by their return to good billets after the cold privations of the march from Lisbon.