“I’ll not need you, Captain!”
As Heaviside saluted and departed, hoping for some breakfast, the Major issued another simple order.
“Follow me.”
They all formed into pairs and followed, led by Deakin and Halfway, who was even more curious than Deakin.
“What’s all this about, Jed?”
“Search me. All I’m hoping for is some provender at the end of it.”
They marched uphill for half an hour before entering a cutting that had a steep slope on one side, above the road, but on the opposite side was the edge of a sheer drop. Waiting on the road were two stout wagons, their covers all in place and each with a team of four oxen waiting at the front, in harness but all eight plainly in a state of utter exhaustion, their muzzles barely above the thick ice. The party marched up to the first wagon and halted when the Major raised his hand. The Waggoner must have heard their approach or had been looking back through the cover, for he dismounted and came to the rear, where, stood before the Major, he saluted and waited, but not for long.
“Unhitch the teams and take them on.”
The Waggoner disappeared and then the Major looked at Deakin.
“Two men, to pull the cover back.”
By inclining his head, Deakin motioned Stiles and Peters onto the nearest wagon and the cover was pulled back to reveal a collection of small chests in five rows, five deep. Deakin made the calculation and came to 25. Each chest was about 12 inches by 12 and 15 inches long, held shut by a small clasp with a small lock through it, but no sooner had he finished his examination than the Major was motioning him to the cliff edge, to point down to a sharp projection on a shelf about 20 feet below.
“All these chests are to be thrown over and each must hit that outcrop, so that they smash. Is that clear?”
Deakin did his best not to look puzzled and amazed, but he managed a simple salute.
“Yes Sir. Very clear, Sir.”
The Major stood back.
“You first!”
Deakin stood for a second, before going to the wagon to take one chest, which had been placed on the edge by Stiles. It was heavy, but the first thing he noticed was the army stamp burnt into the lid, this being a crude copy of the badge on his shako. He carried the chest towards the cliff edge, but before he arrived the Major gave an order.
“From above your head.”
Needing no orders, the others of the work party had taken themselves to the edge to watch. Feeling the weight, Deakin hoisted the chest above his head, before dropping it accurately onto the outcrop. The result was a crash as the chest burst apart, then a cascade of silver spread out, down into the chasm, to soon be lost against the backdrop of the snow at the bottom, hundreds of feet below. Shock and surprise was plain on his face as Deakin looked at the Major, who was now prepared to give an explanation, now that one was so obviously needed.
“This is the army’s treasure. It must be scattered in case it falls into the hands of the French. Moore’s orders. Continue!”
Forming a queue, the soldiers approached the wagon, to each pick up a chest and throw it down, the sound of the crash on the rocks making a regular rhythm. The Major stood back to supervise.
Deakin was horrified; this was a King’s ransom being thrown over a cliff, to be picked up by the Spanish in the Spring. It could be given as a bounty to those who held to their Colours, given in handfuls to all who still remained with the column, as a reward, which would ease their life back home, but instead it was disappearing as a silver spectacle down hundreds of feet of cliff. Something snapped inside him and his mind began to work.
“Sir, this wagon’s a bit perilous, Sir, and like to roll back, with the team gone, Sir. We needs some rocks behind the wheels.”
The Major nodded and, over four journeys, Deakin fetched four sizeable rocks from the slope and lodged each behind a wheel. As the jettisoning of the chests continued, Deakin sidled up to Halfway.
“Tobe. Drop one onto the shelf, so’s it don’t smash. Just breaks and stays thur. Then call ‘im over.”
Halfway’s next chest brought the required result.
“Sir. One’s lodged on the shelf, Sir. Part way down.”
The Major came to the edge and peered over. There was indeed a chest on the rock ledge, barely shattered. Now annoyed, the Major looked back at the wagon and saw what he wanted, a towing rope, hooked on the outside, used to pull the wagon out of the mud when required. He fetched it himself, seized the nearest soldier and tied the rope around him, using a very seamanlike bowline knot. He handed the end of the rope to a group of soldiers, then looked at the one encircled by it.
“Over you go!”
Although deeply fearful, the soldier sat on the cliff edge and lowered himself over, whilst the others took the strain, with the Major looking down to supervise that no coin found itself into the soldier’s pockets. Meanwhile Deakin was giving his own orders, to Peters.
“Sam! Get under the wagon an’ dig a hole in the snow. Use yer brummagem.”
Peters looked at the Major, concentrating on events over the cliff, then at Deakin, then he dropped off the wagon to draw his bayonet, then crawl under the wagon to hack a hole in the deep snow and ice. After another glance at the Major, Deakin pulled a chest off the wagon down onto the snow and, using his own bayonet, quickly levered of the weak hasp. He lifted the lid, then, after again checking on the Major, began shovelling coins into Peters’ hole. He risked ten double handfuls of the heavy silver pieces, then stopped, to close the lid. As Peters shovelled snow back over the small hoard, Deakin took a stone from a rear wheel, and smashed in one corner of the chest, up to the already ruined hasp. Peters had scrambled back aboard the wagon, hauled up by Stiles. The stone was quickly replaced before the sound registered with the Major who immediately turned around, instantly suspicious, to see Deakin gathering coins off the snow and placing them back in the chest, along with a lot of snow to make up the bulk. The Major came back, very angry and suspecting theft.
“What the Hell happened here, Sergeant?”
“Sorry, Sir. Dropped one. Fingers too cold, Sir.”
The Major didn’t wait, but thrust his hands into both Deakin’s side pockets, to find nothing but a few acorns. Remaining suspicious, the Major looked at Deakin, then under the wagon, then close around. He looked at Stiles and Peters.
“You two, empty your packets!”
Both pulled out the lining to reveal nothing. His distrustful examination was broken by Deakin lifting the chest and taking it to the cliff edge, then casting it over.
“Thought that one could go over anyhow, Sir, bein’ as it’s already smashed open!”
The Major looked daggers at Deakin, but this was broken by the soldier reappearing from the edge, having now been hauled back up. The Major was angry, convinced that something had happened, but there was no evidence, which added to his temper.
“Get the rest over, quick, damn quick, and get it right. Another poor throw like that and you’re off to the Provosts, the damn lot of you.”
However, he felt happier as the army’s fortune was rapidly consigned to the cold air off the cliff and both wagons were empty. The Major gave his last order.
“The wagons go over and you go back.”
The wagons disappeared over the edge together, to land with a crash that could be heard even from their height above it. The Major mounted his horse as Deakin formed up his men, then turned and gave a salute, which was not returned; the Major simply walked his horse away. Out of the Major’s earshot Deakin gave his orders.
“March off. Slow.”
The small party shuffled back down the track, with Deakin giving frequent looks back at the Major. When he had disappeared around a bend, Deakin grabbed Stiles and Peters and pulled them over to the slope above the road. Halfway took the party on. Deakin waited two minutes, in case the Major should obey his suspicions and return, but they saw nothing. Deakin walked out to the centre of the track, waited a while more, then moti
oned for Stiles and Peters to run back with him. Soon they were between the wagon tracks and soon Peters found the soft snow under which lay the hoard of coin. This was scooped out, and then the hole carefully examined to find three more silver pieces hidden in the ice. Holding the sides of their tunics steady, for the weight was causing a wild swinging, they ran down to catch up with Halfway and the others. There was an immediate share-out, each man receiving twenty-eight silver guineas, enough for a small cottage or a patch of ground back home, but the brief joy died in an instant when they regained their Companies to be told by their Captains to prepare for a forced march, as ordered by Moore. Deakin went straight to Bridie to stand helpless. There were no preparations that could be made; there was nothing left to bring into use for such a march that was not already employed and about to give out and fall apart.
***
There is misery that comes from the evidence of your own eyes, yet there is a misery beyond that, the level of misery which comes as hope dies away. That day’s march, followed by that of the 6th January proved to be the worst of the whole retreat. Moore ordered forced marches for 36 hours, which brought a result almost as deadly as though he had brought about the battle that almost all his army craved. The 105th were to take their turn as the final rearguard and Lacey handled his men in an orderly retreat, one wing of the battalion holding a strong position for the other to retreat past and hold the next. The French Dragoons that they saw made no attempt against them, content to wait for their own infantry to come up, but by then the 105th were long gone, disappeared into the mist and snow of the uplands.
Being the last through, the sights that greeted them were harrowing to even the most hardened veteran. Worst to see were the frozen remains of followers, frozen in abandoned wagons, as were the wounded. In addition were the able bodied but exhausted soldiers, those who should have been able to hold their place at a normal pace, but instead sat by the roadside in misery and the agonised curse that the 105th heard most was a curse to their Commander, who would not let his men stand and fight. That their own followers had been sent on ahead was a mixed blessing. Even halting to confront the French, the pace that they needed to set to keep ahead would have proved impossible for their women and children to match. These were out of sight, but not out of mind, and the groups of dead followers they came across were carefully studied as they marched past. However, frozen faces, covered with frost rime, soon lose the familiar that was once loved and cherished, therefore they could do little but march past, heads down, hearts hardened to the pitiful cries of all the dying; soldiers, women, and their children, although some were hoisted, if still alive, from their dead Mother’s arms to be carried inside soldiers tunics and rotated round, when the carrier became too weary himself from the extra burden. Drake and Shakeshaft felt the misery and despair that this caused worse than Carr, who clenched his jaw and slogged on, occupying himself with the military business of conducting the rearguard for the Regiment. This caused him to often look back down the track, marked out in the white snow not as a black ribbon formed by their passing, but by the continuous dots of red, where a soldier had given all up.
On the morning of the 7th they caught up with their own followers and their own mourning began, for their own families had not escaped the deadly embrace of cold and its cruel henchman; hunger. Several of their number now remained back on the hard road, casualties of the past two days. Deakin went first to Bridie, immensely relieved to see her still alive and still caring for the others, although he was shocked to see her sunken eyes and dark cheeks, the signs of ensuing starvation, but she immediately turned his alarm for her and the children aside and took him over to Mary.
“She’s lost the baby, Jed.”
Deakin looked in horror from Bridie to Mary, but his eyes finally remained on the girl. She was lying on the travois, face turned away and covered with a blanket. There was neither sound nor movement. Bridie touched his arm.
“She’s not got enough in her even to cry, Jed. She’s alive, but full borne down. I don’t know how she’ll go on.”
Deakin looked at her, a tear emerging from his eye, which Bridie wiped away.
“The child?”
“A girl.”
“What did you do?”
“Mrs Prudoe wrapped her up and we buried her in a churchyard. We think it was a place called Cerezal. Parson told us the name when we got him to say some words. He’s good like that.”
She looked down on Mary’s prone figure.
“I told her it’s for the best. It was her or the child, or both. The baby born would not survive anyway. Not in this. I told her, but it did no good, not then, but perhaps later it might.”
Deakin nodded, but now it was Bridie’s turn to cry. She leaned forward to place her forehead against his chest, she was now fully sobbing.
“There’s worse, Jed.”
She almost broke down completely.
“I’ve three children, Jed, but I can only keep two alive. If I try to feed three, they’ll all die.”
She spoke no more agonised words, but sobbed uncontrollably.
Deakin levered her away from him, to hold her at arms length.
“They’re wearin’ that drummer boy kit? An’ it don’t make no difference?
She shook her head.
“Which is the weakest?”
“Sinead.”
Deakin nodded once more; Sinead was the youngest. He lifted Bridie’s face.
“Now listen! She’ll not die, not whilst the lads is near.”
He turned to Halfway, sat nearby on a log, unshaven, horribly dirty, a piece of torn blanket wrapped around his shako and his boots held together by a variety of bridle harness. A piece of wagon covering was draped around his shoulders, giving him the look of a down-at-heel undertaker.
“Tobe! You heard all?”
Halfway nodded, then stood up.
“They’ll not die, Missus, not none of ’em! We’ve lost one child, we’ll not lose no more!”
That night extra arrived in the pot for the children, albeit mostly acorns and horsemeat, but that night each slept in the arms of a soldier, these being Halfway, Stiles and Peters, wrapped in horse blankets. The next morning Deakin gathered yet more of the thick blankets, cut a slit in the centre and each child of his own and also Nelly’s then wore a broad poncho for the day’s march.
***
The order to continue the retreat did not arrive, at least not immediately. Moore was content that the main French army was some way behind, their forced march had added to the distance, if also to the long list of his own dead. The Reserve Division were to hold where they were and, at Noon, the main army marched off, the 105th’s followers with them. The Reserve would catch up the following day. Deakin, Halfway, Stiles and Peters watched them go. The children looking like mobile playing cards, escapees from their place in a “house” made of such, but all three now looked better, as did Mary. She seemed to have recovered somewhat, especially when Sinead joined her on the mule and she took responsibility for the small child upon herself.
The 105th were ranged across a hillside, seeing practically nothing, for all was shrouded in a deep fog, although this did nothing to stop the snow, which continued to fall, not thickly, but enough to soon cover their backs and shoulders. Being unable to see anything, an eerie silence reigned, each soldier feeling the need to hear what he may not be able to see. Each Company was required to send a picket down into the valley, some 200 hundred yards below them. In the case of the Colour Company this was Stiles and Peters, both now sat on a horse blanket, leaning against a tree, saying nothing, staring at the odd shapes, seen eerie and distorted by the swirling fog from over the stream, all gathering their share of the falling snow. Their visibility was but yards beyond the stream and so, like the veterans they were; their muskets were easily to hand.
Stiles noticed movement and nudged his companion for both to then pick up their weapons and slowly pull back the hammer, covering the mechanism with their free han
d to muffle the click. Two figures were emerging from the fog, the first of their shapes that could be seen being their black French gaiters and then the blue of their tunics. Both were intent on the stream, neither was looking beyond, the silence of the valley had lulled them into believing that the English were way beyond and gone. Blithely unaware, the two descended to the stream, each with canteens and one having his arm out of his tunic and in a sling. Whilst one filled the canteens, the other washed his wound in the freezing water. Neither had attached any importance to bringing their weapons. They were the worst of Napoleon’s conscripts; it was very possible that neither had yet fired a shot in anger, yet here they were, invading Spain, and confronted by a very capable and very dangerous army. The first they knew of their danger was the movement of Stiles and Peters approaching to stand on the far bank of the narrow stream, then they saw the blank muzzles of the muskets pointing at their faces, at which point both froze in horror. They both stood and raised their hands. Without looking at Stiles, Peters spoke.
“We can’t be doin’ with these as prisoners. What now?”
Stiles looked at both, still with their hands raised.
“These is little more than beardless boys. One’s wounded.”
He let out a sigh of exasperation and lay down his musket. Using one stone to step across, he then opened the tunic of the astonished wounded Frenchman to examine the wound in his chest, close to his shoulder.
“Bayonet, or sword, more like.”
He fished inside his left coat pocket and produced a small package, their “housewife”. He found a needle; already threaded, pulled open the boys mouth and stuffed the thread inside, consternation and amazement plain on the boy’s face. With the thread now wet he expertly put two stitches into the wound. The boy was too astonished to cry out at the pain, as was the other, who had stood with the canteen spout down, the water pouring unnoticed unto the ground. Job done, Stiles looked along the bank for some moss. He picked a wad, pressed it against the wound, closed the shirt, then took the boy’s hand and pressed it to the place. He then looked from one to the other. His words meant nothing but the inclination of his head showed all.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 32