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

by Martin McDowell

  The 105th were as close to being in barracks as was possible, without that precise term being actually applied. They were in an abandoned monastery. The stout outer doors had been locked and barred, more from hope than expectation and these were soon forced to allow the entry of the whole battalion. Soon the various messes were claiming their places, these being the cells of the absent monks, but Miles could not desist from commenting on the “miserable commons that goes with being a monk.” He was told to stop worrying by Davey.

  “It’ll never happen to you!”

  Whilst the accommodation was perfect for the men, for one in particular of Lacey’s Officers it was far from such and certainly also not for one of his Privates, and for a reason very much different from its physical comforts. Joshua Heaviside could lower his head at the collection of statues in the entrance hall, but he could not countenance the statue, picture and crucifix in his quarters, this being one of the larger cells. However, he called in a member of his Company and had the three removed, to be replaced by his own plain cross. That established, he fell to his knees, having composed his daily prayer within sight of the city walls. However, there was no such comfort for Percival Sedgwicke. His objections to the “Popish” imagery were immediately dismissed by Prudoe and so, in their quarters, the devoutly Low Church ex-Cleric could only bow his head and satisfy his conscience by looking away.

  Now fed, the men were looking to their own entertainment. The gamblers were in full spate in the other messes, but that of the six to which Davey and Byford belonged contained no students of the dice, but they had their own vices. It was Miles that poked his head out of their cell to look down the long, bleak corridor that held the doors to their cells. He withdrew his head and spoke to the five within.

  “I’ve heard that these places brews their own spirits. For sale, like, to earn a bit of extra coin.”

  It was Byford who spoke up, speaking resignedly; knowing that what was to come could only end badly.

  “You are not wrong. The Benedictine Monks, as only one example, do exactly that.”

  Miles nodded, thus encouraged, and grinned mischieviously.

  “Right. I’m off for a poke around. We ain’t been here so long as to allow our Officers to see all what’s ’ere. I’ll take a shufty.”

  Davey looked at Saunders.

  “Zeke. Go with him, for Christ’s Sakes. Keep him out of trouble.”

  The accuracy of Davey’s words propelled Ezekiel Saunders to his feet and both left the cell. Within five minutes they were back.

  “I’ve found a door. A bloody great big thing and b’ain’t no cell. No-one’s living in thur. Could be the cellar!”

  Davey looked at Saunders, his brows knitted suspiciously.

  “Zeke?”

  Saunders nodded.

  “It’s true! A large door, all iron bound. I couldn’t shift it, but we got a big echo.”

  Davey looked at the others. They all knew what he knew, that a supply of spirit was never unwelcome, to lift their own spirits, especially on the kind of cold march they had just endured.

  ‘Right. We’ll go take a look.”

  They all filed out in Miles’ wake, Pike and Bailey carrying the candles, to be led around several corners until they were confronted by what was, indeed, a very imposing door. However, it was immovable, plainly barred by a very secure lock behind a keyhole that was equally imposing, large enough to hide a mouse. Miles shoved the door again, plainly frustrated.

  “Let’s smash it in!”

  The response was several frowning looks at such idiocy, but then Len Bailey spoke.

  “Wait here.”

  He was gone but a minute, before he returned with two pieces of thin steel, one curved, the other with a hook. As he knelt before the keyhole, it was Davey who spoke.

  “I didn’t know that you had criminal tendencies! For good Christian boys like me and Joe to associate with the likes of you.”

  Bailey was poking around inside the lock, but he had enough concentration spare to make an answer.

  “Parson ‘an Tiley b’ain’t the only King’s hard bargains in this Regiment.”

  He continued his poking, until…..

  “Tom. When I says so, turn the handle.”

  Miles seized the handle. Seconds more.

  “Now!”

  The handle was turned and the heavy door swung open, to reveal inky blackness and a powerful smell of dust and damp. Pike was pushed in first with his candle and then came Saunders with the second. The dim light fell first on rows of bottles and jars, then shelves of ancient books, all bound in leather that once shone, the pride of the bookbinders art, but now all were dull and dusty. One section contained rolled scrolls, yellow and equally grey from the dust of decades, bound with faded cord, its colour of some long gone description. Miles’ eyes lit up at the sight of the bottles and he went immediately to the shelves to make his selection. Having the thinnest criminal streak of those embarked on this villainy, Byford was the last in and he stood still, looking all around in deep thought, then he went to the bookshelves to examine the titles, then to the shelves with the bottles and jars.

  Meanwhile Miles had expertly decapitated one bottle and was sniffing the contents.

  “Brandy! Of the best, I’ll wager. These Monks knows what’s good for a body, after all.”

  Byford had now moved to read the labels on the jars, all being of the finest illuminated script. It took him some time before he could make out the words, but meanwhile Miles had taken a deep swig from the bottle. His face showed that he wasn’t sure.

  “Well, ’tis brandy, sure enough, but not quite of the best.”

  Meanwhile Byford had come to his own conclusion.

  “I’d drink nothing from what’s in these jars and bottles. Nothing!”

  By now Miles had taken another sample, in order to make his final judgement. His face showed that he was of the same opinion, but he had heard Byford’s pronouncement.

  “What do you mean? Nothin’!”

  Byford looked at him challengingly, even in the yellow light.

  “Just that.”

  He had found a deep bowl and held it out.

  “Pour your brandy into that. I’ve wiped off the dust, there’ll be no harm.”

  Miles looked at him as though he were mad, but slowly and carefully he tilted the bottle, for the precious brandy to pour into the bowl. The bottle was tipped further, almost to the vertical when all those watching gasped. Out came, to fall into the half filled bowl, what could only be described as a finger, blackened and shrivelled, but nevertheless, a finger. Byford took the empty bottle and held it to the candlelight to read the label.

  “St. Ignacio! And that’s his finger!”

  He waved his hand at the shelves.

  “This is a Reliquary, the place where bits of Holy Saints are kept. What’s in those other jars I dread to think, but that one, which you selected, brave Thomas, contained the finger of the Holy Saint Ignacio!”

  Even in the candlelight, Miles was going green; the others were dissolving into various depths of laughter. It did not end, even when Miles ran out of the door and they heard his boots echoing down the corridor. Still laughing, Davey looked at Bailey.

  “Can you lock this up again. I don’t doubt the French will smash it in, but we should leave it as found. `Tis important to some, that being the Monks as was here.”

  Bailey nodded and produced his “rods”, while Davey replaced the finger and poured back the brandy, before stuffing a piece of cloth into the shattered opening. It was Byford who carefully replaced it on the shelf, label outwards.

  ***

  Merely days after the arrival of the 105th saw developments of great import, but those in the ranks could merely look on. In the weak sunlight of early December, many of the Colour Company were sat outside repairing and checking their kit, close to the gate that led in from the bridge over the River Tormes, where, on the far side, the routes from Madrid and Cuidad Rodrigo combined. Thus the
y were in the prime position to see the entrance of the final element of Moore’s army, his cavalry and the last of his guns. Finally, came a fantastic cavalcade of Spanish uniforms, and these were merely those that were on show, all atop fine horses. The really gorgeous uniforms, encasing the personages of the most important, were inside the gleaming carriages. The Spanish arrival drew a comment from Deakin, remarked to his friend Toby Halfway.

  “What do they want? To join up? Might as well, they’ve damn all army left. May as well join ours!”

  He was not in a good mood. Not from anything that Bridie was or was not doing, he was content that she was doing her best, but to what end? Whatever she did, under his advice could count for nothing when viewed against the possibilities of what could come. He had no experience of being on a campaign where he had the additional responsibilities of a family of followers and being a natural “worrier”, it was this that he found so depressing. Halfway detected Deakin’s subdued temper and continued to check the stitching on his pack, nevertheless he felt inclined to make some attempt to lift his good friend’s mood.

  “How’re things between your Bridie an’ our Chaplain?”

  Deakin looked away from the parade of gold, light blue and scarlet.

  “With our Chaplain, not much. He’d rather they weren’t about, but his wife is a very gracious and helpful lady, that I’ll hear nothin’ against. Why, she’s just let out a dress for Joe’s Mary, she’s beginnin’ to show, and that’s what I call real Christian kindness. She’s teachin’ the youngers their letters and Scripture and that can be no bad thing, for their pure betterment, if nothin’ else. That’s how I sees it. As for the Chaplain himself, well, that’s a different story.”

  He left it there and began to examine the integrity of his own haversack.

  The arrival of the Spanish did little to lift the mood of Captain Lord Carravoy, sat at the window above this main road, sipping white wine, whilst D’Villiers wrote home.

  “Moore has got us into a dreadful pickle. Even coming this far, our heads are now in a French noose, it slowly closing. What chance do we have now, against the French, they’ve already enough men to annihilate three Spanish armies? If they concentrate on us, led by Napoleon, what odds would you give for us?”

  D’Villiers looked up from his writing. His aristocratic confidence had been boosted by his not unsuccessful experiences so far; some, if not most, being quite praiseworthy, or so he judged it. This new self-belief gave him the assurance to disagree with his superior, if ever so slightly.

  “We aren’t the Spanish. We’re a victorious army, so we can hardly turn around and go home without firing a shot! I believe all is not yet lost, that if we hold together we can still do the French some damage and still get out of this.”

  Carravoy looked angrily at his companion. He had not received the full agreement that he expected.

  “That may be so! But only if we go no further. The Spanish are a lost cause. Better to get out now and try elsewhere.”

  Carravoy turned back to the window. Recent orders had done nothing to mollify his ill mood.

  “And heavy baggage to remain here, that’s what I’ve heard and on good authority. None on the march! That means not even alternate nights on a decent bed!”

  He re-examined the wine bottle. But an inch! He turned to face the door.

  “Binns!”

  Binns was halfway through the door anyway and spoke his own words first, they being of far greater import than any request from either of his two charges.

  “Message from the Colonel, Sirs. Meeting at his quarters in 15 minutes.”

  D’Villiers reached for his coat, whilst Carravoy drained the last dregs from the bottle.

  ***

  Lacey stood before his assembled Officers, half standing, half sitting on a table. There was no room left for him to sit behind it; it had been pushed back against the wall, and most of his Officers were standing. Lacey was holding a stiff paper in his hand.

  “We have been made part of General Bentinck’s Brigade. He studied the paper.

  “ 4th and 42nd.”

  Lacey’s brows knitted together.

  “The 42nd, they’re Highlanders, but the 4th? Do you know?”

  He was looking at O’Hare, who nodded.

  “King’s Own! And the 42nd are the Royal Highlanders. Very fashionable! We are in illustrious company, but Bentinck is unknown to me.”

  “And to myself.|

  Lacey looked up to his audience and to the one most likely to be his best source of information.

  “Carravoy?”

  Carravoy looked from Lacey to O’Hare then back again.

  “Yes, I know him. He is the second son of the Duke of Portland. His father and mine are good friends, often coming to our estate to hunt and shoot.”

  Lacey was interested.

  “So, you know him socially.”

  “Well, no. And yes, but I doubt he’d remember me, being that much older.”

  “Sort of character?”

  “Sorry Sir. I had too little to do with him, to form any opinion.

  Lacey nodded, then continued with the second purpose of the meeting.

  “The Spanish are insisting that we support them. Madrid is holding out, so Moore considers that he has no choice but to advance on, to Sahagun. We move on the 11th, one week’s time. Get the men ready, everything checked and thoroughly examined. We are not in for an easy time.”

  He paused and examined their faces, all of which remained blank.

  “All heavy baggage to remain here.”

  A slight pause.

  “Dismiss.”

  As they all filed out, Lacey raised his hand to signal O’Hare to stay. With the pair alone, Lacey found two glasses, a bottle of good French, then poured two large measures. He pushed one across to O’Hare and the two exchanged a knowing look, then, without a word, Lacey raised his glass in O’Hare’s direction and drank. O’Hare studied his Colonel and drank from his own glass, allowing the deep warmth, now spreading in his stomach, to distract his deeper concerns over what he had just heard. He replaced his glass and left, without a word more.

  The following day, Lacey again called for all his Officers, but this time into the Church. The rumour was that their situation was ever more serious, so that even Heaviside had his mind distracted from the Catholic images that abounded on every wall and in every alcove. With his Officers now gathered before him, Lacey stood up, and silence fell immediately. He took a deep breath.

  “Madrid has surrendered.”

  He quickly spoke further, leaving no room for any conversation.

  “But Moore is pressing on to Sahagun, with no change of plans, and I think he’s right. By co-operating with the Spanish army of La Romana to our North, we can operate around the fringes of the French invasion, and perhaps, if the Spanish performance improves, do it such damage that they pull back. Marshall Soult is to our North and Moore intends to move against him.”

  Now he did pause, but no-one spoke. All waited for their Colonel to say more.

  “We still move out on the 11th as planned. I want each man to have an extra blanket and we’ll carry extra boots in our baggage train. Enough to replace what will surely fall apart on the winter roads.

  He paused again, to straighten himself to his full height, for added emphasis.

  “I don’t need to tell you how tough this is going to be, and, if the very possible happens, it will get even worse. I refer to a retreat. A winter here can be as bad, or worse, than anything back home. I leave it to you all to get your men ready for a campaign in severe weather, and what matters most is boots, blankets and greatcoats. Any spare that we can gather, from any source, we’ll take with us. And for the followers too! What they provide for the men, and not just hot food, is too valuable to risk. They motivate the men to hold together. Though I wish they were not, the followers are with us, and their suffering will prey on the men’s minds.”

  It was Carr who raised his hand.

&
nbsp; “Sir. All the extra will be extra weight, that needs be carried on the march.”

  Lacey nodded.

  “Yes, but we still have our mules, and the extra wagon, and I have an idea of my own that may help.”

  He turned to O’Hare.

  “Major, can you gather the followers in here this evening?”

  O’Hare looked perplexed.

  “Yes, Sir. When?”

  “7 o’ clock would be perfect. Also, when we marched in, I noticed several stands of larch. Get some harvested, will you, twelve to fifteen foot lengths. Have them brought here.”

  What he did not say, which was preying on his own mind, was that Moore had spent the last week in a state of utter indecision, which was most likely to result in an immediate retreat. He could only hope that his Commander in Chief had made a firm decision and was determined to carry it out with all the power at his disposal.

  The 11th was a gloomy day, wind, cold and rain, and if no rain, always the wind, but usually the two combined. The 105th stood their place at the forepart of the long column, all secured as best they could against the zero comfort of the day, all with an extra thick blanket roll atop their knapsack, it being a roll of two blankets, and all wearing greatcoats. Even so, the wind carried the cold down their necks and up their sleeves. Bentinck, their new Brigadier, rode impatiently up and down the length of his three Regiments, of which the 105th was the centre. Before them was the 4th The King’s Own, behind was the 42nd The Royal Highland and no one made mock of their kilts, the sight of their bare knees sent all into shivers.