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

by Martin McDowell

  “Sir!”

  Carr turned to Tavender, whose face remained blank.

  “No acorns! That I can guarantee. Filling, but bitter, and they give you shocking wind!”

  Again no smile nor any form of similar reaction from Tavender. Carr was beginning to detect a slight feeling of resentment from this Officer whom he was trying to help, but he thrust that aside and pressed on.

  “If you are in agreement, I will return in 30 minutes, time enough for me to check on my men. By then you will have eaten and Fergusson will have returned.”

  A blank stare and a slight nod from Tavender, so Carr left and within 30 minutes he returned. He had found for himself where the 18th were, but Tavender appeared as morose as ever, remaining in the same corner. Carr looked at him in the dim light, but, as before, he pressed on.

  “Shall we go? They are not too far.”

  Tavender pulled his sabre up from alongside his right leg and used it to lever himself up. When he walked it was with a slight limp on that leg, which Carr felt it improper to comment on. Once in the street, they began their journey, Carr having to slow his pace to allow Tavender to keep up, but social requirements dictated that he make some attempt at polite conversation.

  “Have you heard from your people at home?”

  Tavender looked at him as though he were an idiot and Carr quickly qualified his question.

  “I mean, since Astorga. None of us have received anything since.”

  Tavender nodded.

  “Yes. One caught up with me some days before then.”

  He paused.

  “Usual chit chat, about my sister, my niece, my horses, the estate, local politics.”

  He continued wearily.

  “I could go on.”

  He looked at Carr.

  “What else is in letters from home?”

  Carr nodded.

  “True, but on the other hand tedium is good news, isn’t it? That’s the charm of a letter from home. It means that all is as it was when we left. That’s a comfort. Well I find, at least.”

  Such sentimentality brought another querulous look from Tavender, but no further conversation. Carr started again.

  “Do you know the 18th. They’re Hussars. Light horse.”

  Tavender stared straight ahead.

  “I know what Hussars are! I was in the 20th Light Dragoons, therefore I have somewhat more than a distant idea.”

  Carr sighed and dwelt on his own thought, ‘Ah, well, I’ve given it as good a go as can be expected. The fellow’s as much of a stuffshirt as ever!’

  Finally he found a reply.

  “So you think you’ll fit in? If they’ll take you?”

  Again the querulous look, but there was no answer, nor any more conversation for the few minutes before they came to the door of a large and well lit building. Carr entered followed by Tavender, but Carr immediately recognised an Officer of the 18th that he knew, a Captain Jones. Several times he had ridden back in through Carr’s picket line with a small patrol and over those occasions a standing, humorous exchange had been established between them, always beginning in the same form, “Jones. 18th and riding!” “Carr. 105th and walking!”

  Carr’s face split immediately into a wide grin.

  “Captain Jones!”

  Jones turned and grinned in reply.

  “Carr of the Foot! Not frozen yet?”

  Carr ignored the question and turned to Tavender.

  “May I introduce Captain Tavender of the 20th Light Dragoons, but at present horseless. His mount gave up some weeks back, so, can you help, that being to get him a horse and perhaps take him into your ranks, at least until we reach Corunna? He was at Vimeiro.”

  Carr immediately regretted mentioning that cavalry disaster, but Jones appeared not to have noticed or had decided not to mention it, politeness requiring otherwise. He walked forward, offering his hand, which drew a smile out of Tavender as he took it. Jones looked at Carr as though he had just asked a highly foolish question.

  “But of course, Carr! Where could there possibly be any doubt? Of course we have a horse and of course we have a place. We’re a bit short of good company in the Officer’s Mess, for one reason or another. If we had a Mess, of course.”

  Carr was grinning openly.

  “Well, it’s your own fault! Perhaps you should start eating your own horses.”

  Jones rose up in mock umbrage.

  “Carr the very idea. I’d rather eat my own boots first, no, rather your boots. If you haven’t worn them out yet!”

  Carr laughed and conceeded defeat, then turned to Tavender who was now looking marginally more cheery.

  “Well, I’ll leave you in these capable hands, Captain, and bid you good luck.”

  The reply was merely a nod, a definite one, but he did not offer his hand. Carr turned to go, but with a backward look at Jones.

  “Good luck, Jones!”

  “Good luck, Carr!”

  The following day was unmercifully clear, for, marching ahead of their men, Lacey and O’Hare saw what convinced them that Moore’s army had finally fallen apart. All over the hills, on both sides, and at the furthest range of their telescopes, they could see swarms of Redcoats, all fallen out, deserted, or simply lost. The kindness of some Brigadiers orders in Valmeda to allow their men to get out of the rain had virtually destroyed the cohesion of their battalions and these Redcoats were now little more than looting marauders breaking into cottages and hamlets to steal and pillage anything of value, which went beyond the simple search for food. Twice Lacey stopped to examine such through his telescope and there was now a constant pattern, for any visible building had its own collection of plundering Redcoats. Eventually he could no longer bear to watch, instead he marched alongside his men, as did O’Hare and Simmonds, encouraging and promising better times ahead. However, ensuring that his men were well fed did more. At Lugo, O’Hare had gathered up some horses, less exhausted than most, fed them bags of biscuits to keep them alive and loaded them with provisions about to be destroyed. Regular hand-outs of biscuit as they marched and meat for mealtimes kept his men content and, more importantly, together.

  The day finished at a bridge over the river Ladra. It had not been destroyed and so Paget set the 20th to guard it for the night, with the 105th in reserve. They were not disturbed, neither physically, nor in their thoughts, by the sight of any French campfires glinting in the far distance, for there were none, and the point most often made around their campfires through that night was that Moore’s ruse of leaving Lugo at night had worked, albeit at the cost of his army’s cohesion. The following day they came to a familiarly half demolished bridge over the Mendeo, which had been guarded by the 91st. On their arrival, the 91st formed up and marched on, before the 105th then crossed, to follow them into Betanzos, where, for the first time, they saw the sea.

  ***

  The nine were lying on a bank just within the tree line. They had been there but minutes before Ellis had given judgment.

  “This’ll do!”

  It had been four days since they parted company with El Navaja. The snow had gone but they had still left tracks in the mud, which for the first two days was a constant worry to Ellis and so he and Davey were in constant conversation concerning how they could make themselves difficult to follow, particularly for such as El Navaja, were he still bent upon revenge. However, keeping as close to the French as they dared, they had been unmolested, but then their worries disappeared, because for the following two days there were tracks everywhere from roaming Redcoats. Now, plainly, they had come up on the junction between the British rearguard and the French advanced guard, but their food was exhausted and all were very hungry. They had kept themselves separate from the bands of deserters and marauders that numbered thousands all around them, or rather it was more the other way around. Some attached themselves to the nine, but soon slid off into the night when they found themselves subjected to Ellis’ iron discipline, especially if they had no weapon and
also, more pertinently, when they found that they had more food than the nine and were required to share. Ellis had utterly refused, even in the face of Miles’ protests, to indulge in any form of thievery or pillaging, but nevertheless, there was now almost a second army of detached Redcoats in the hills all around. If El Navaja wanted to avenge himself on British soldiers, he now had plenty to choose from.

  Because of these factors, they remained the original nine, but all, from their high vantage point, had decided for themselves that this was their chance and probably their only one. From their position they could see that they were now opposite a large portion of a large village split by a river. They were on the “French” side, but all the buildings were still held by the British, evidenced by Redcoats leaving and entering, although those leaving appeared to be in a much higher military order than those arriving, the latter plainly being the now common battalions of stragglers. They called it the French side because off to their right was the wide deep river, probably tidal and the village contained the only bridge. The British army was formed on the far side and the other black spot in the picture was French cavalry, a substantial body, in plain sight some three quarters of a mile to the left of the village, which they would have to enter and pass through, then cross the bridge to gain the British lines over to their right. Ellis rolled over to look at his companions.

  “Weapon inspection in five minutes! Get ’em clean!”

  The Riflemen looked at him as if he were mad, but Ellis’ 105th companions knew him of old and all brought their rifle around to their front and to give it a clean and a check. Newcombe had had enough, this was absurd.

  “You’re wasting time! The French are on their way, five minutes could cause us to be cut off again.”

  Ellis gave him a look that told that this martinet of a Sergeant would brook no argument.

  “You listen and listen good. Down there we will, like as not, find ourselves in a fight. I wants nine rifles as works, and I’ll tell you this, if yours misfires that’ll cost you your stripe, Chosen Man!”

  Annoyance spread across Newcombe’s face and stayed there, but he was a trained Rifleman and he had finished cleaning and inspecting his own weapon well within the five minutes. After that time eight rifles were held forward for Ellis to look at, hammer back and frizzen plate open. Ellis gave each a brief inspection, for, indeed, he did not want to spend too much time, for Newcombe did have a point and he knew he could trust veteran soldiers to maintain their weapons up to the standard required. However, he and Miles still found time to share a look of intense dislike, before he peered into the priming pan on Miles’ rifle.

  “Touch hole?”

  “Clean!”

  “Flint?”

  “New!”

  With no acknowledgement to Miles, Ellis gave his next order, speaking to them all.

  “Load.”

  All nine immediately found a paper cartridge and bit it open. Within 20 seconds all had a loaded rifle and Ellis led them forward. Joe Pike as usual keeping close to John Davey.

  “What’s that village called, John?”

  “Haven’t got a clue, boy. Come on,”

  On the slope above the river, the 105th were in their customary position as rearguard, all with a panoramic view of the scene. Carr’s Light Company were formed on the left end of the 105th‘s line and the 95th were further down the slope forming a skirmishing line someway back from the river. Drake and Carr, as usual were exchanging observations on what they saw. The conversation had opened with the usual question from Drake.

  “What’s this place called, again?”

  The answer before had been “Betanzos”, but now Carr was passing judgment, ignoring the repeated question.

  “There is such a army of stragglers and deserters between us and Johnny that we are practically redundant. They make up more than enough between him and us to occupy his advanced guard. Look, there’s another crowd coming over that hill.”

  Carr pointed unnecessarily to a group of about 200 Redcoats, all running to enter the village before the French cavalry. There was another group behind them that had almost no chance of escape, but Carr was right, there were plenty of their British enemy to occupy the French Light Cavalry, without any need to involve themselves with the far more potent Reserve Division.

  Jed Deakin was also stood watching, but he was the first to see, using his sharp country eyes, the nine emerge from the trees to the left and run across the winter dead field towards the village. At first he paid them little attention, dismissing them as yet more “drop outs”, there were several other groups around, but something held his attention and so he studied them further. After half a minute he turned to tug at the sleeve of Halfway.

  “Toby! That group, thur, running to the village from the left, just comin’ out of that hedge. Ours and Rifles mixed, don’t they seem familiar?”

  Halfway shielded his eyes to look. The group had at least ten minutes running to do and he gave them a careful study.

  “They are! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I am.”

  Deakin looked around for an Officer, but saw none. The Ensigns did not count.

  “I’m goin’ down to the Lights to tell Mr. Carr. If Heaviside comes back, tell him that and what we think’s goin’ on.”

  With that Deakin left the front rank and ran down the line to the Light Company. Carr and Drake were still out at the front and so Deakin ran up to them, came to the attention and saluted.

  “Sir. Beg to report. Sir!”

  Carr felt a slight annoyance at their conversation being so summarily interrupted, but this was Colour Sergeant Deakin.

  “Yes Sergeant? What do you have for us?”

  Deakin pointed.

  “Sir. That group there, runnin’ for the village from the trees. About nine, Redcoats and Rifles, Sir.”

  Carr and Drake identified them as they came into clearer view.

  “Yes. What of them?”

  “Well Sir. We do believe them to be some of yours, Sir, Light Company, what we lost at Cacabellos. That tall one, well, I’ll lay money that’s Zeke Saunders, them two out front looks like Ellis and John Davey, an’ that one in the centre, Sir, movin’ like a sneaky weasel, well, that’s Tom Miles. They last could be Byford and Pike, Sir.”

  Drake looked away, choking back his laughter. It was very bad form for any Officer to laugh at any humour made by a member of the “other ranks”, but the humourless Carr had found his telescope and was studying the group. He had been since he heard the name “Zeke Saunders”, the rest of Deakin’s words he had ignored as he attempted to focus his glass. Within seconds he knew that Deakin was right, here were six men of those he thought lost, six of his best men. He turned to Drake.

  “I’m going to the Colonel. I want to take us down into the village and get those men out. They’re six of those we lost at Cacabellos.”

  Drake nodded, just before his own telescope arrived at his right eye, and Carr ran off. Lacey was stood behind the Colour Company, but Carr was immediately disappointed.

  “No. Remember what happened at Bembribre.”

  Carr was so animated by the possible recovery of six he had thought lost, that he felt inclined to argue.

  “But Sir, could I not take a section down to give them at least early support, at the bridge? The 95th would be in support, Sir, down there. Being there may mean we get them back across. It could make the difference. Sir.”

  Lacey looked at Carr and thought. Six of his own were in danger, but he vividly remembered how men were cut to pieces by the Cuirassiers as they ran from Bembribre. He fixed Carr with a fierce gaze.

  “One Section only and 50 yards only in front of the 95th. Stay close before the bridge, definitely not over it. Is that very clear?”

  Carr nodded gladly.

  “Yes Sir.”

  He saluted and was gone. He did not even pause when he returned.

  “Number One Section, with me!”

  Drake’s men
immediately followed Carr down the hill.

  Ellis, with Davey at his side at a fast trot, was heading straight for the nearest gap in the houses, a narrow alley. Through it, on what must be the main road, could be seen a continual stream of Redcoats, all hurrying through to reach the British line beyond the river. The nine entered the alley, dodged around a scattering of broken furniture and came to the main road. There Ellis was surprised, he expected to see mainly able bodied men; deserters, thieves and marauders, but what surprised him were the number of wounded and injured, and what surprised him more was that the great majority still carried their muskets and had their equipment slung about them. At that moment intense firing broke out at the French end of the village, distant but continuous. He looked to his right and could just see the green uniforms of the Rifles up on the slope and over the river. There were also some Redcoats running down. He looked again at what was before him, which re-affirmed the proportion of sick and wounded, many on crutches, but what he now realised was that there was a total absence of any badges of rank. He looked left to see smoke in the distance and the sounds of musketry intensified. He turned to John Davey.

  “Seems there’s some good lads down there, putting up a fight.”

  Davey simply looked back at him, expressionless. Ellis had decided.

  “Come on!”

  He turned left towards the fighting. Miles looked aghast at what was happening, Pike, Saunders, and Byford were merely bemused, but they followed. Ellis looked behind to see only two Riflemen and he soon realised who was missing.

  “Where’s Newcombe?”

  It was Spivey who shouted back.

  “Turned right!”

  “Shite-auk!”

  Running in the opposite direction to the flow of soldiery, they soon cleared the village to run out onto the bare fields on the long hill slope beyond and, when over the shoulder of the first rise, they saw what was happening. Attacked by French cavalry, the fugitives had gathered into a dense crowd and were holding off the French, but they were making no movement back. They were a good 300 yards beyond Ellis and his few companions. He looked over the short distance to the only road that ran down the slope, where more Redcoats were streaming past, eager to get to the village, which was now at least 400 yards back.