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

by Martin McDowell

  “Now bugger off!”

  Both immediately scampered off into the fog as Stiles regained their own bank. Peters looked exasperatedly at him.

  “Too bloody soft, you! Too soft by half!”

  Stiles was slinging his musket.

  “Best get back up. Say we saw some Frenchers what scampered off, but they must now be near.”

  Peters looked at him again, still amazed at his friend, but his words deep with sarcasm.

  “Oh really! You don’t think?”

  They regained their lines to find the battalion forming up to leave. They immediately told Heaviside and immediately received a stock reply.

  “Take heed therefore unto yourselves, and to all the flock. Acts 20, verse 28.”

  Utterly bemused, the two joined their Company, in time to obey O’Hare’s order to march away. Lacey was using the fog to obey Paget’s order to withdraw. The news from Heaviside that French had been seen, brought but a nod of Lacey’s head. Heaviside dropped the subject.

  “What’s the next town, Sir? Do you know?”

  “Constantino, I do believe.”

  Heaviside saluted and joined the column at the side of his command, immediately matching their step.

  “The Lord is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble. Nahum One, verse 7.”

  It was Deakin, as usual, who answered, as usual with more than a hint of humour.

  “Yes Sir. I’m sure all the lads sees it that way, Sir.”

  All within hearing grinned from within their upturned collars, as much as their frozen faces would allow, as grimly they marched on to await the order to halt and become, once again, the last of the rearguard.

  The snow had stopped to reveal a clear, but bitter day. However, for every soul; soldier, woman and child, what mattered most was the fact that they were descending. Before each footfall the ground did not rise, but fell away, each step placing the high, barren, merciless plain behind them. Spirits amongst the followers slowly revived, as did Chaplain Prudoe’s concern for the social standing of his wife. During a rest he took her to one side.

  “My Dear. I do feel that you are lowering yourself somewhat too far. To actually turn yourself into a beast of burden alongside the wives and what-have-you, does little for the representation that you convey of our rank here. I do think that you should now concern yourself solely with affairs that pertain solely to you and I.”

  Looking squarely through the restricted opening of her bonnet, Beatrice looked sceptically at the image of her husband before her, it not being one to engender affection nor respect.

  “Leviticus. What we are going through, here, now, is the worst I have ever heard of, never mind experienced. I would wish you to know that, were it not for the knowledge, strength and fortitude of these good women, I doubt we would be here. Neither myself, nor you! What I bring to you, to keep you warm and fed, comes from them, blessed by our merciful Lord, who looks over us all.”

  She paused, but all she saw on him was shock, as much as his bound up face was able to register any change of expression. She continued.

  “We are too much in great peril not to share the means we have, that we may all survive the dangers we face.”

  She pressed home her advantage.

  “Please do not mention this again!”

  Whether he nodded agreement or not, she did not wait to find out, but went immediately to Mary and Sinead, to see if there was anything that she could suggest or even provide. There was not, not much other than a kind word and the lifting of a collar or the adjustment of a blanket tied crossways over the body of an exhausted figure.

  They marched on, into the fog and large snowflakes, whipped by gusts of wind that tortured the fog and caused the heavy flakes to make their own noise as they collided with their fellow travellers beside and before. As usual Nelly and Bridie marched ahead, each harnessed to one pole of the travois, Patrick and Eirin both adding their strength, harnessed close behind, keeping in step. For the two women, the fog added a depression of its own, condemning them to march on, as though on a treadmill, through the filthy slush, trudging towards the edge of the fog, a destination that never came, over a track that remained always the same mocking distance before them. The two glanced at each other, sharing a look that they never gave to the others; a knowing look, no words, but a look which silently spoke that this could not long go on. It was Nelly who turned away first, to look ahead, not to see, but in the direction of something that she had just heard.

  “What was that? Sure, was that not the bellow of some animal, a cow or a bull or something?”

  Bridie looked ahead, then nodded herself as the sound came again.

  “You’re right! Didn’t I hear it, just then, myself?”

  Subconsciously they quickened their pace, surprising Patrick and Eirin behind. The sound became clearer, that of several animals, but the first they saw of whatever it all was, was a tall Redcoat, shako, greatcoat, musket and cross belt all in place, then another, then another. The first turned to greet them, a smile across his dirty bearded face, but behind him there was definitely a team of bullocks, harnessed to a large cart. The two women could not speak from bewilderment, but the soldier had been expecting them and he spoke first.

  “Morning Ladies! Some supplies, compliments of the General.”

  It was Bridie who spoke first.

  “Supplies! Supplies you say? What sort? What’s there?”

  The soldier retained his grin.

  “Supplies for the Spanish army; uniforms, food an’ all sorts, but they b’ain’t here. So the General’s grabbed ‘em for his, an’ left us, the Guards, to eke it out, like, so none get’s ruined.”

  Bridie and Nelly had halted and were now accompanied by a close group of fellow followers. Seeing the crowd of speechless faces, the soldier continued.

  “This has been held for the Reserve Division, an’ if you’re their followers then you’re entitled to a share.”

  His grin widened.

  “But you’ve all got to be good girls and not rush at once.”

  It was Nelly who reacted, now stood with arms akimbo.

  “Just listen to the gombeen!”

  She fixed him with a ferocious stare.

  “You think we’re the sort as’ll smash to bits what’ll keep us alive? You tell us where to go and we’ll take our share, then move on for the next to get theirs.”

  The Guardsman was taken aback by the belligerent response, but he did not lose his grin, in fact he laughed.

  “It starts here, good Mother.”

  He pointed with his thumb to the cart behind.

  “This has boots, Spanish, but they’ll serve. Easily onto Corunna.”

  This time he pointed with his finger to the back of the cart.

  “They’m laid out there; small, middle an’ large. Take a pair if you has the need.”

  This they did, looking in wonderment at the pile of footwear remaining in the wagon, then, wide eyed, they wandered on to gather further of the wondrous bounty awaiting their pleasure in each wagon.

  The food obtained was immediately cooked on the spot and, as luck would have it, the Reserve Division came marching up, just as the pots were boiling, a combination of pasta, dried beef, beans and Spanish brandy. The 105th, being held back, arrived a little later than the main Reserve Division and, after his men had obtained their full share and more from the wagons, Lacey stood and watched, but mostly listened; he had not heard such cheerful talk and laughter for some time. He and O’Hare filled their flasks with the fearsome Spanish spirit and toasted each other’s good health. Around the messes of the battalion, after the consumption of the hot food, many debated the merits of donning the new Spanish uniforms that the carts contained. Many decided against, but all had opted for the new boots. Sat with Halfway amongst their followers, Deakin could not help but feel a sense of satisfaction grow within him as he watched the children eat their second helping and then came the sound of Nelly chiding her husband Henry, which domestic
discourse told Deakin that things must be now set on an upward road to rights, albeit with a very long way to go. Whatever, they were now in better shape than 24 hours earlier and they had extra on the extra. There was still substantial left in the carts, but an extra share of this was obtained by using the silver rescued from the army’s treasure. Stomachs were full and haversacks were bulging, and several haversacks that could not be carried were lodged safely on the travois and Mary’s mule. ‘Money still talks,’ he thought, ‘even though the chief currency is biscuit and salt pork!’ He settled under a blanket next to Bridie’s sleeping form, took one last look at the children, then fell instantly asleep himself.

  ***

  Chapter Seven

  Each day, that follows another!

  “If it snows on the moon, I may as well be there!” Such was the thought that occupied the capable, but uneducated mind of Joe Pike, as he stood and contemplated the utterly bleak vista that surrounded him in all directions. These surroundings were revealed by weak sunlight through cloud somewhat less dense than of late, therefore, at least not shedding snow to add to what already lay, thick and frozen, as far as he could see. ‘As far as he could see’ was a mind numbing exposure of white or black, with the odd variety of grey, that stared back, cheerless and mocking, all painted at random over a jumble of hills, cliffs, and gullies. Then his mind returned to the task in hand, ‘If there are trees on the moon.’

  They had been following a track now for two days, a route indiscernible on the snowbound landscape, rather one that, for all intents and purposes, existed solely within the minds of their guides. These were no longer Mangara and his merciless associates, for the nine had been passed on, to the next guerrilla band, this led by as cruel eyed a villain as Pike never wished to meet. At the hand over, the new leader, whom everyone called El Navaja, including the guerrilla himself, had looked with burning hatred upon the nine British soldiers. Byford had no idea what this name meant, but perhaps the huge cut-throat razor stuck in his waistband was a clue. There had been a long conversation between this El Navaja and their Mangara, which eventually ended with a nod from El Navaja and a handshake between both. From studying the gestures between the two and the odd word known by Byford, it seemed that Mangara was enjoining El Navaja to deliver these ‘Soldados ingleses’ to their army, as a matter of ‘honor’, both to himself, this being Mangara, and to Spain.

  The nine British did their best to part from Mangara with good cheer. There was certainly plenty of such warmth from the Spanish side, handshakes and ‘buena suerte’ all round, Saunders receiving an extra thwack on the top of his arm, accompanied by ‘el buen hombre, ingles’. This parting had taken place the previous morning and, for the rest of that day, throughout the night and the next morning, always at least three of them had kept constant vigil in some form, either on sentry or walking out a flank, where they could keep better watch. Again, Ellis had forcefully ordered his small command, on no account, to unsling their Baker rifles, thus Joe Pike’s was now swinging awkwardly down his side as he carried a felled log down to the broken bridge that was holding them all up. El Navaja had seen the downed bridge from some way off and sent one of his men to investigate. Ellis sent Alf Verrity forward with the scout as a gesture of co-operation, but El Navaja merely shrugged his shoulders. The stones of the bridge were scattered around, easily found under but a thin covering of snow, meaning that the demolition had been quite recent. The guerrilla leader spoke briefly, then spat in contempt.

  “Caballería francesa.”

  Ellis nodded agreeably.

  “Si. French Dragoons.”

  However El Navaja ignored him, rather he pointed at the three green uniformed Riflemen, then at the positions he wanted them to take to watch and guard the work they were about to undertake. Four more of his own band were sent up to add to this guard and those remaining set about felling trees to bridge the gap between the truncated arches of the bridge. About nine foot, Pike accurately estimated, being an ex-fencer on a large country estate, before being dismissed because the daughter of the estate was taking too keen an interest in him, this in the form of teaching him to read. That thought also entered his mind as he carried one end of his log down to the bridge, for it to be stood vertical, and then allowed to topple forward over the gap. Tom Miles had been at the other end to carry the log and something still rankled within him, his being a temperament easily riled. Chosen Man Newcombe had grinned as he walked off, carrying his rifle, as the Lights of the 105th joined the guerrillas to fell the necessary timber. The insolent grin was one thing, the words were another.

  “Have no fear, soldier boys! We’ll be watching over you.”

  Ellis had quickly discerned Newcombe’s contempt for them being “Line Regiment”, for it also annoyed him, but he knew enough to keep Miles away from the Rifleman. The last thing he needed was a fight in which either could be injured, or even killed, then he would have an issue on his hands. What Newcombe was capable of he didn’t know, but of Tom Miles he knew everything he needed and this dictated that they be kept apart. What he did not realise was to credit himself for Newcombe keeping his tongue in check; Ellis’ own iron character was enough to persuade the Rifles Chosen Man to indulge but lightly his liking for heavy sarcasm.

  Within an hour the bridge was “bridged” and they marched over the rough collection of logs, good enough for a train of pack mules, but not for a wagon; however, that had to be left for more peaceful times. They now climbed the valley of the stream that ran under their bridge and a half-mile from the top they halted for bread, dried meat and wine that tasted more like vinegar. The soldiers sat in a close group, their rifles to their front, the barrel leaning in the crook of their necks and shoulders as they ate and they ate rapidly, to finish before the guerrillas and then sit waiting. The hand gesture in their direction from El Navaja to continue their march was not long in coming, whilst his band all stood when he did.

  The valley widened at the top to show a clear, level ridgetop, now but half a mile distant. As they trudged on further, ever upwards over the powdery snow, Ellis seized John Davey’s arm to bring him to a halt.

  “John! Hear that?”

  Now, with no noise from their own footfalls, Davey listened intently, his brows furrowed, then they widened in recognition.

  “Muskets! That’s muskets. There must be fighting, over that ridge up yonder, if I’m any judge.”

  Ellis nodded.

  “Not too long now, I’m thinkin’, but fighting means French. Where are we, behind them, or up beyond the lads?”

  Spirits sank, when a careful approach to the ridge top, revealed the former. They could see a heavy French skirmish line being held by an equally heavy line of Redcoats and Riflemen, but the French were supported by a strong squadron of cavalry; Dragoons, so Davey’s perfect eyesight told him. They slithered down the back slope to discuss their next move, but there things took on a very nasty flavour. El Navaja clearly considered that he had carried out his task, that he had brought them to the English army, whereas it did not seem to count that, in this situation, the nine rejoining was impossible. He was stood before them pointing over the ridge and repeating five words.

  “Hay su ejército. Puede ir.”

  Ellis looked at their one source of Spanish.

  “What’s he saying Byfe?”

  “It’s more the pointing, and I do know that puede means “go” as in “leave”. He wants us to go.”

  Ellis let out a long sigh whilst looking at El Navaja, who was repeating his words from a mouth almost obscured by beard, but not obscured enough to not reveal large yellow teeth. Ellis soon decided and replied to Byford, but all could hear.

  “This cove don’t want no more of us. We’ll part company and push on alone. We can keep an eye on the lads and try to get up to `em. Shouldn’t now be too hard.”

  Ellis knew enough Spanish himself to say what was now needed.

  “Mucho gracias, Senor El Navaja.”

  He stood and offere
d his hand, but the gesture, which he refused, motivated El Navaja to speak further, and more aggressively.

  “Mi pago es uno de sus fusiles!”

  Ellis knew enough to gather the gist of what El Navaja had said, but he needed confirmation.

  “What he say, Byfe?”

  “In essence, he wants us to pay him for his services by giving him a Baker.”

  Ellis immediately began smiling cheerfully at the guerrilla, trying to make light of it by saying ‘No, no,’ and simultaneously shaking his head and waving his right hand. Davey now spoke up.

  “Tell him what you said to that other cove, Byfe.”

  Byford cleared his throat.

  “Ningún fusil. Disparó por ingles”

  To back this up, he held his own rifle out of sight and pointed a finger into his own chest.

  “Disparo. Bang! Ningun fusil.”

  El Navaja repeated his own words, growing more angry and, in addition, pointing at Spivey’s rifle, which was the newest of the nine they carried, and looked it, being well cared for by its owner. Ellis didn’t like what was happening. El Navaja’s band were watching and must have heard all, so for El Navaja this was now a matter of face. He couldn’t back down in front of his men, but Ellis had had enough. He spoke to his own men first.

  “No! To Hell with it! If we meets French I wants nine who can fight, not eight.”

  He then looked directly at El Navaja.

  “No, Senor El Navaja. Perdon, no, perdon, no.”

  He continued to shake both his hand and his head.

  “Byfe. Tell him thanks for his help.”

  Byford gave his best ingratiating smile to support that of Ellis

  “Gracias por su ayuda. Adios.”

  Ellis then repeated the adios, which brought a change of expression into El Navaja’s eyes, which Ellis did not fail to notice. He spoke to his men.

  “Walk back. Don’t turn your backs, just step back.”