Sempri translated and Mangara nodded, then spoke himself to Sempri who translated.
“Is this not coward? You should stand and fight.”
Ellis nodded, not annoyed.
“We will be back. If we live, we will come back, more of us, and fight some more.”
Ellis waited for the translation, then continued.
“But it is no use if we are all killed or made prisoner. Then no-one will come back, England will have no army.”
Sempri translated, Mangara nodded, seemingly understandingly, then he spoke further, for Sempri to translate.
“Georgio says that we are “guerrillas”. We fight the “little war” against the French. You could join us until your army comes back.”
Davey looked at Ellis who slightly shook his head, but it was Davey who spoke.
“We thank Antonio for the honour he shows us, but our honour means that we fight with our own comrades with our own army. We are not deserters. We fight and perhaps die with our own amigos.”
Davey had included one of the few Spanish words he knew, but how accurate was the translation they had no way of knowing. However, the answer seemed to please Mangara. He made a fist, beat it against his chest, then thrust it a short way towards Davey, a stern expression on his face. Davey now thought the time to be right.
“Can you help us return to our army?”
Sempri translated and Mangara nodded as he replied for the translation.
“Yes. But tomorrow. Today we go again to the French.”
The answer was definite and brooked no argument, no-matter how disappointing, but then Mangara spoke for Sempri to point to the three Riflemen.
“Antonio would like those to come, with their good guns. Of this Baker, we have heard.”
Ellis looked around to Verrity, Spivey and Newcombe, who had been listening, but Sempri was speaking further.
“Their green makes them good guerrillas!”
Ellis turned again to the three.
“They want you to go on a raid with them, against the French. It would help our cause if you did.”
It was Newcombe who spoke. He was a Chosen Man, like Davey, but Ellis didn’t much like him. He gave out a superior attitude somehow, seemingly disdainful of mere line of battle soldiers, but nothing had been spoken as yet.
“As you say, Sarge. That’s us, we’re Light Infantry, trained for just such.”
Ellis nodded, but Davey touched his arm.
“These “guerrillas” could get us a coat, so’s we don’t wear red. We could go too, win their favour even more.”
Ellis looked back at him.
“Careful John! If we’re caught, out of uniform, we’ll be killed and not clean. These three will be fightin’ as they always do, an’ the French knows ‘em as skirmishers.”
Davey nodded.
“You’re right. Didn’t think of that.”
Ellis looked at Sempri.
“They’re yours to command. Teach ‘em a few tricks, will you?”
The joke meant that everyone parted laughing and in good spirits. At Noon some more stew arrived and with it consumed, the three Riflemen tailed onto the end of the long line of guerrillas leaving the quarry. The six of the 105th watched them go with mixed emotions, they were off to fight the French, but as a part of God only knew what kind of harebrained scheme, but Ellis answered their thoughts.
“These guerrilla lads have survived so far, so they must have some idea what they’n about. Cause for Faith, I’d say.”
He paused until the last had gone, then looked back at his remaining five.
“Meanwhile get all ready for a tough march. We’ve lost two days on the lads, who’ve been pullin’ back all the while. We has to overtake, while still goin’ what’ll probably be the long way round, led by these villains.”
The afternoon was spent in sleep or checking equipment, especially boots and straps. With even that exhausted, they sat idly under their shelter, counting the times the girl walked across their front stealing glances at Joe. With the day now died and the gloom of evening almost full, the party returned, accompanied by much rejoicing. Shouts of triumph came from the men and those in the quarry replied with their own cries of obvious delight. They had brought back much booty of all sorts, boots, clothing, equipment, harness and weapons, which looked like cavalry carbines, and all were invited to take their pick. All was dumped around a central pole and some kind of circlet was hung on it, but the smiles of Ellis and the others died when the three Riflemen came back to sit amongst them, to sit dejected with their faces down and facing the ground. It was Spivey who finally broke the silence. He had shown himself to be the most gentle natured and thoughtful of the three.
“I never wants to be part of anything like that again, never!”
His head dropped down again. It was Joe Pike who asked.
“What happened?”
Spivey raised his head and took a deep breath, to let it out as a long sigh.
“They saw a cavalry patrol, some way off, but comin’ our way. We ’ad to run over a hill to make the track in time, but we did and got on both sides. They dragged a dead tree over the track, just round a bend, so’s the Frogs wouldn’t see it from way off; they’m good these boys. Then they shot ’em to pieces from front, back, an’ sides.”
He took another deep breath to form a deeper sigh.
“That was one thing, what came next was another. Wounded or not, all prisoners had their eyes put out before they cut their throats.”
He inclined his head towards the pile of booty.
“See that, … that garland thing? That’s their ears. They cut off the ears of every man as a trophy.”
Total silence met his description, broken finally by one word from Miles.
“Jesus!”
Miles had more to say.
“This is one stinkin’ war. These, our side, is as bad at doin’ what we saw at that Alcobatha place, afore we closed with the Frogs at Rolica.
The thought entered Ellis’ head regarding what the French did to obtain food, but it seemed lame and inadequate, so he held it to himself.
Few spoke for the next hour, instead they sat watching the guerrilla band poring over the booty, selecting what could be used. Their victory must have been regarded as a major triumph for soon a bonfire was lit and the carcass of a goat set to roast before it. Soon after, there was dancing, drinking and carousing involving the whole community. Ellis looked at the scene, then at the eight of his command.
“Come on, we can’t just sit here like the poor relations at a wedding! ’Twill look bad. Grit your teeth, get to the fire and take a drink. Look cheerful. Whatever, a troop of French Dragoons is dead, them as we’ve no more need to worry about. How it was done won’t be the first nor the last evil thing as is done in this blighted place, afore anyone’s finished!”
Still carrying their rifles, slung from shoulder to hip, they rose and joined the throng. Mangara himself roared a greeting and brought over a wineskin, which he drank from in amazing fashion, holding it way above his head at arms length for the wine to squirt down into his open mouth; somehow he was able to swallow and retain an open mouth at the same time. Judiciously, the nine managed to drink short bursts of wine from the wineskins that they had been given, before choking to the roaring laughter of Mangara. Soon pieces of carved goat were arriving and the drinking abated slightly. When the goat was but a suspended collection of bones, the dancing started and it was not long before the girl arrived to stand before Joe Pike. Horrified, he looked at John Davey.
“Go and dance, boy. Where’s the harm? Mary will understand, and we has to keep these sweet. Can’t afford to give no offence.”
Joe was dragged off to dance for the whole session, only to return when the entertainment took a more serious turn. There was to be wrestling. Two well-built youths came to the centre to be supervised by Mangara himself. He posed them for the start, right arm over their opponents left shoulder, their own left hand on their hip. Mangar
a dropped his hand and the bout began. It was a clumsy and brutal affair, short lived, with one getting the other in a headlock and near throttling him, until Mangara told him to stop. However, the affair then took on an even more serious flavour. A young version of Mangara strode forward, topping his Father’s height by a head and exceeding his breadth. He was stripped to the waist as Mangara held up the wrestler’s arm, yelling something. Davey looked at Byford.
“What’s he saying?”
“My son!”
A challenger came forward, older but perhaps more experienced. However, he was despatched in double quick time by being barged over, then pinned to the floor. Flushed with such an easy success, the son looked around for more challengers and his gaze lighted on Zeke Saunders, to be followed by his finger. Mangara clearly agreed and motioned Saunders out into the ring. Ellis looked at Mangara, then at Saunders, then back and nodded, grinning like an ingratiating showman, but indicating that Saunders needed to take off the top of his uniform. He then pulled Saunders back from the ring. One thing he did know was that Saunders was once the undefeated wrestling champion across the whole of Wessex and much beyond, but he needed a word.
“Zeke! Lose! We needs these to get us back, what we don’t need is any one of this gang with any kind of grudge. Put some moves on him, show him that you are a good opponent, no kind of dunce, but lose. These aren’t the folks from back home, these is different. They lives by the feud!”
Saunders nodded as he removed his shirt.
“I hear you, Sarge. Problem is, how do I make it look good?”
Ellis slapped him on the shoulder as he entered the ring to a cacophony of cheering. This was to be a bout of a quality that they had not witnessed in some time and the result, if going with their man, would pass into legend. Mangara set the two, and then dropped his hand. Instead of pulling away, Saunder’s ducked under his opponent’s head to seize his right arm and pull that arm into an arm lock. The arm went up his back as Saunders pushed him forward and crowd fell silent as their man fell to the floor, his face pushed into the dirt from the pressure of his arm twisted up his back. However, Saunders slid forward to place his head besides the right ear of the Spaniard, just enough for him to reach up and get a hold upon it. The hold was weak, but, when Saunders felt the pull, he allowed himself to be hauled over, releasing his own hold. The crowd roared at the show of strength and Saunders rolled away to return and circle his opponent. The Spaniard raced in to take Saunders in a bear hug and then take him to the floor, but Saunders twisted so that he landed uppermost, then from his position of advantage, he forced back the Spaniard’s head into the dirt to break the hold. As the Spaniard’s hands slid away, Saunders stood up and waited. The next charge came and Saunders met it perfectly; with his right arm under the Spaniard’s left armpit and he used the speed to throw him across his outstretched right leg to land sprawling on the floor.
Saunders met three more attacks with a scientific answer, then he stood to gauge his opponent; was he angry, frustrated, petulant, or what. “What”, seemed to be the answer, he remained ready to fight on. Though plainly not as skilful, he was not prepared to give best at all easily. Saunders judged the moment and ‘Fair enough’, came to mind. This time he advanced himself, looking for the move he wanted, shifting one way, then the other. This caused the Spaniard’s arms to come up to where he wanted them and Saunders dodged between and under to seize the Spaniard’s left leg at the top of the groin and try to lift him. The Spaniard instinctively leant forward and Saunders hoisted him almost off the ground, bar some weight remaining on the Spaniard’s right leg. Then he did what Saunders hoped, he pushed up on that leg to gain height above Saunders. The Spaniard remained upright and Saunders deliberately leant back so that the Spaniard’s weight was now bearing down onto Saunders head and chest. The soldier held the young man there for an agonising two seconds before toppling backwards with the Spaniard landing on top. Seemingly winded, Saunders made no move as the Spaniard seized his wrists and pinned him to the ground, whilst Mangara bellowed the count of seconds. Hearing the number he wanted, he leapt up from Saunders prone body to caper around the ring, arms raised, bellowing himself. Saunders rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers, to find his opponent stood before him with a wineskin, which he tipped above Saunder’s head for the wine to emerge. Saunders did his best to swallow and drink both at once, but eventually the wine cascaded over his face. It was of no matter. Mangara’s number one son was holding his arm aloft and Mangara himself was slapping Saunders on the shoulder, yelling repeatedly.
“Bravo Inglés! Bravo!”
The crowd were cheering at full volume, as Saunders, in the English way, offered his hand for his opponent to shake and this he did, before raising it high again. Ellis chose his moment and walked forward with Saunders shirt and tunic, a signal for him to gracefully leave the ring. As he came back to his companions, Byford gave his verdict.
“Plainly, Zeke, there’s a place for you in the Diplomatic Corps.”
However it was Miles who answered.
“Yes, if he could spell it.”
Saunders gave no answer as he drank from Miles’ canteen.”
***
Beyond Villafranca there was both similarity and contrast to what had gone before. Beyond the ravaged town was a country similar in every way to the desolate Vierza; the depressing contrast was that this time there was so little food to eat and little fuel for each day of their march. The cruel wind carried the cold; at that height there was nothing to divert it from its chosen prevalence, always from the East, to numb the right side of their faces and penetrate any gap in their clothing that was increasingly coming to pieces. If there was not mud, to soak and numb their feet, there was ice that used the damp to penetrate chilling cold further beyond their blistered feet, up their tired limbs, chilling to their knees and beyond, to then further exhaust their hungry bodies. Each day, each step became more of an effort, as Moore’s army, now barely worthy of such a description, trekked across the highland, each day’s progress less than that of the day before.
The 105th, still in the Reserve Division and still with their followers, held their column. Gibney, Hill and other trusted NCO’s marching out beyond, at the sides, there to deter any deserters falling out, but they were not called upon; either their presence deterred any such action, or the men of the 105th were content to stay with their Colours, seeing this as their best chance of survival. The fate of those that left the column was all too obvious, both ranged along the roadside or hanging from a convenient tree. Lacey expected every minute to be called upon to deploy and turn against their pursuers, but the hours dragged as slowly as their feet and no order came. Instead, regularly every hour, it seemed they found a cavalryman either shooting his horse or butchering the carcass. Harbouring their own precious supplies, Bridie and Nelly made a trade for some of the meat, using acorns or biscuit as currency. During the night stop, the several joints of meat was boiled in their pot on communal fires, wood was too scarce and precious to be given to each family or mess. The result was wrapped in frozen grass and then bound further in cloth. Nelly Nicholls pronounced on the result, as it was stored on their travois.
“That’ll keep in this cold for a good week or more.”
This was spoken to all that could hear, but she was studying Mary. She could hold food down a little better these days, but she was growing weaker by the day. The poor food and incessant cold were taking their toll. They were keeping the mule alive for Mary to ride on and they all took turns at pulling the travois, including Beatrice Prudoe, her husband maintaining a place ahead, where he would not have to witness his lady wife performing such labour alongside such labouring fellows. Not that it now mattered so much, his thoughts rarely strayed from his own dire circumstance, for he was as much a bundle of wet cloth and blankets as any of them, with a piece of torn sheet holding a felt hat on his head, the knot tied incongruously under his chin, this now a lot less well upholstered than when they had first la
nded at Mondego. However, on the 4th January, the 105th were halted by Paget’s orders, and the followers sent on, with Prudoe and Sedgwicke included. The ex-Cleric and convicted felon that was Percival Sedgwicke had increased in regard throughout the battalion to the equal of any looked upon as “a pillar of the Regiment”. Using what peasant remedies he had learnt when he visited the low hovels of what had once been his Wiltshire Parish, he gave whatever help and advice he could, keeping cheerful and being welcomed at any fire, usually with “Hello Old Parson. Come and have a warm!”
With the breaking dawn of the 5th January, Heaviside was shaken awake to open his bleary eyes to find himself looking at a well appointed Major, well clothed and well shod. Not waiting to observe the niceties of standing and salutes, the Major spoke immediately.
“I’m told by your Colonel that you are the Captain of the Colour Company?”
By now Heaviside had managed to roll out of his blankets and was stood to attention.
“Yes Sir, that’s correct.”
The Major leaned forward, a gloved index finger touching Heaviside’s chest in time with the words, the other hand holding the reins of a good, and obviously healthy, horse.
“I want your Colour Sergeants, your NCO’s and any other trusted men to make up a half dozen. I expect you by that tree in five minutes.”
He mounted and rode off in the direction of the stark and haggard feature that he had singled out and Heaviside hurried off. He went directly to Jed Deakin and shook him awake. Deakin tried first to move his head and was grateful that this time his hair was not frozen to the ground, he had made his bed amidst the relative warmth of an abandoned battery of Spanish guns, then he looked up at his Captain. Heaviside spoke immediately.
“Gather Bennet, Halfway and three others as soon as you can. Meet me on the track, by that tree.”
Deakin hurried off to carry out his Captain’s orders and soon himself, Heaviside and the squad of men were stood with the Major, who quickly looked over the ragged collection, then issued his order, it being very simple and directed at Heaviside.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 31