“When is there never?”
The 105th were assembled long before dawn and marched off, leaving a pile of supplies for the oncoming French, it had been impossible to destroy it all, but only after they had piled as much of it as they could upon themselves. Some had been thrown into the river, but eventually the barrels and sacks began to pile up from the stream bed and threatened to give the French a way across, so the effort was abandoned and a mound now remained at the top of the ridge. Drake, ever the humourist, would not let the opportunity pass by and had chalked a message on the side of a barrel.
“Les compliments de la boulangerie de petit gâteau de Pied 105. Vous voir dans Corunna.”
Carr looked at it as they prepared to march off.
“And that says what?”
“Compliments of the 105th Foot biscuit bakery. See you in Corunna.”
Carr nodded and his mouth twisted into a wry grin.
“Tres droll, I’m sure, although I doubt M’sieu will appreciate Navy biscuit, full of weevils, but it’ll spare some local family being robbed of their winter food, assuming if it keeps them here, and not out foraging.”
Well fed, dry and enjoying better weather, the 105th kept up a good pace, however, they were halted to form the rearguard for Paget’s Division, which he had drawn up on the far side of the river Mero. They were not to cross but to maintain a watch backwards from a good watching position, but the sight of the French campfires in the absolute furthest distance set Lacey’s mind at rest that they were on the wrong side of the river. Then more supplies came up from Corunna as the 105th made their camp and, as they gorged on salt pork, practically a joint between two for their evening meal, the same as midday, Deakin and Halfway, sitting with Stiles and Peters, passed the time in contented conversation. Halfway made the most relevant comment.
“Much more of this and we’ll be puttin’ on weight!”
Deakin sniggered as he swallowed and took a drink of wine.
“An’ a bottle of this each, an’ we’ll be rollin’. Things has come around, that’s for sure.”
However, what came out of the gloom was their Captain, who waved them back onto their log as they rose in his presence.
“Eat, that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way. One Samuel, 28, verse 22.”
As usual it was Deakin who replied.
“Yes Sir. I’d say that about sums it up, Sir.”
Heaviside nodded lugubriously, as though considering the merits of such a response to so well known a Biblical text. Then he lifted his head, suddenly cheerful.
“How are our two Ensigns?”
Deakin put on a cheerful look himself.
“Fine, Sir. Seem to be holding up well, Sir, now we’n through the worst and all better fed.”
Heaviside nodded, slowly and thoughtfully.
“Pleased to hear it. Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required. Luke 12, verse 48.”
Deakin looked at Halfway, both wholly clueless, before giving his stock reply.
“Yes, Sir. I’m sure they both sees it that way, Sir.”
Heaviside passed on, to exchange words and impart quotes to the rest of his company and consume, with thanks, the food and tea that he was often offered. However, the harmony of the night was somewhat marred when O’Hare came around and entered the mess lines of the Colour Company. Heaviside was now spreading the same warning elsewhere, as it was his men that were to stand sentry for this night. Seeing O’Hare, the four did spring to attention, but O’Hare soon put them at ease.
“Ah now, boys, are youse getting some of this good eating inside of you, now?”
Peters thought of a reply first.
“Yes Sir, and very tasty, b’sides very welcome!”
O’Hare nodded.
“Ah good, that’s good.”
He paused.
“Now, we’re hearing that there’s some desperate characters not too far and hereabouts, them as are the worst and’ll not rejoin. All have been supplied now, including the fall outs and whatnot, so there’s food around aplenty, whilst they have none. So double the guard. There’s some out there as’ll think nothing about sneaking in, slitting a throat and making off with a full haversack.”
Deakin was instantly worried.
“The followers, Sir?”
O’Hare waved his hand in dismissal.
“In Corunna by now, but a day’s march away, and well looked after. It’s us you should pay a mind to.”
All four saluted as he walked off, then Deakin made his arrangements.
“Alf! You’n’ I first.”
He picked up his musket and subconsciously fixed the bayonet.
“Then you two.”
He led Stiles out onto the sentry line, found the sentry on his left and kept him well in sight as he extended right, whilst Stiles did the same. For an hour he stood in silence, changing the position of his musket approximately every five minutes, mostly for something to do. He took off his shako, wiped his face with the cloth knotted around his head, then replaced all, then he chased a piece of pork lodged between his teeth. Finally he took a drink of water mixed with brandy and some honey, this luxury found in La Romana’s hoard. This was augmented when Parson arrived, having undertaken to tour of the sentries with a bucket of spirits, which, when Deakin drank his portion, he concluded tasted like nothing on earth, but it did warm his insides. Parson had probably mixed up Spanish brandy with Navy rum, Deakin told himself, wanting to give good measure rather than one or the other watered down. He felt filthy and knew that he was, the tails of his greatcoat, for example, were stiff with mud, but that he took to his advantage, they would not blow up in the wind! Thus, all was at peace in the mind of the goodman Deakin. The fact that he was on campaign, barely five miles from an enemy that would unhesitatingly try kill him, given the chance, did not enter his mind. He felt sure that the worst was over and they had come through. The tragedy that had befallen Mary came to mind, but to such as him, from his place amongst the common herd that the ‘other ranks’ were drawn from, such a heartbreak was far from uncommon across all layers of society, but particularly his. He found a biscuit and chewed contentedly, thinking of Bridie and the children and was grateful that they were safe. He made the biscuit last until Halfway arrived, then he returned to their fire, covered himself in his blanket and fell fast asleep.
Nonesuch contentment dwelt within the mind of Seth Tiley, sat in a cold, ruined house that had been picked clean long before they arrived. He was hungry as were his remaining men. He walked to the door and saw campfires, which he believed to be French, then he stared in the direction of some others, which were in the far, far, distance over to his left, which he believed to be British. He was in a quandary as to what to do. The black space before him would soon be filled by the French, or so he believed. But what to do now? Two of his men had spoken of rejoining and, to end such talk, he had clubbed both almost senseless, but this violence, his answer for every problem, had merely motivated them to make off into the darkness, accompanied by three others. He was left with but four, all as hungry and desperate as he, but there now being so few comprising his band, limited their capacity to rob and pillage, and he did not trust them to not make off at the first opportunity. He remembered Lacey’s threat to hang him at his first offence. Well, he had assaulted his guard in order to escape, that gave a hanging sentence, and, on top, there was his attempt on the followers that had been stopped by that hag Nicholls. What to do? He leaned against the doorway. What to do?
***
Chapter Eight
Corunna.
The sea was not unfamiliar, unsurprisingly, but usually to them all it was a source of some anxiety, because to be carried upon it always meant a period of storms, seasickness, and ever-present danger. However, as they woke in their camp in the growing light of the next dawn, with the spires of Corunna becoming more distinct and the ocean beyond and beside, there was not one man in the Reserve Division who did not look again with
fondness upon the cold grey expanse that stretched over the horizon, as had the main army a day’s march before them, for beyond was England, home and safety. In addition the weather, although January, was Iberian January, and they were now off the cold, high plains. Were they in England they would be remarking to each other on this very early Spring weather.
To rejoin the Reserve Division, the 105th at last reached the Mero and descended into the valley, hiding the sight of Corunna, which most men had sent a grateful and relieved glance towards over each of the past hours. Experience told them that a valley meant a river and a river meant a bridge and a bridge begged the question regarding whether or not it would be destroyed. Down in the valley was a small hamlet, built around this crossing point of the river, it being plainly on an estuary, for, as the 105th marched across, they could see the mid-brown, scum laden waters surging inland with the building tide. There were no civilians, the word of one army being followed by another carried its own warning of probable conflict, in fact almost a certainty at such a strategic point as was their home. The bridge was about to be destroyed and Paget, sat on his horse at the far side of the village, waited until they were across and then sent the 105th far up onto the valley’s backslope, into reserve. Paget now positioned his men, the 95th he deployed far upstream, to a point furthest from the bridge, thus extending his right beyond the 52nd, who were positioned immediately upstream from the bridge. The village itself, now known as El Burgo, was to be held by the 91st, whilst the 20th were downstream, watching the tide come in.
Lacey and O’Hare, knowing they were in reserve, allowed their men to rest, make their messfires and eat. Both sat themselves down on a rock outcrop, waiting for their servants to bring them some tea and whatever could be prepared in quick time. Both watched Paget awaiting the blowing of the bridge, both knowing the question, which would be very much uppermost in his mind. The answer came within five minutes with a terrific explosion that sent lumps of masonry hurtling into the air, several that came from houses alongside the bridge itself, for, when the smoke and dust cleared, there was nothing left of the bridge nor its neighbouring buildings. Instead, there was a levelled space of 20 yards radius, centred on where the bridge once was. With the noise, billowing smoke and dust, and lumps of rock descending disconcertingly close, Paget and his Staff were having difficulty controlling their horses, but, with these calmed, Paget and his Aides walked off to their own place of rest and repast, but not before an icy look from Paget had banished the self congratulary grins and smiles of the Engineers, all now emerging from the extremes of the village.
Sat behind a stonewall which gave shelter from the sea breeze, the messes that habitually cleaved together were all sat watching their fires and awaiting the boiling of their food in their communal stew pot. All save one member, which caused Davey to remark to Miles.
“Something’s wrong with Joe.”
Miles looked at the solitary figure, sat alone someway down the slope. He had not divested himself of any of his kit and his Baker was upright and sloped back into the angle of his shoulder and neck. He looked as though he had been ordered to stand ready, ready to be sent into action at a moment’s notice, sitting staring at the empty road over the valley that they themselves had come down not an hour before and would also be the route for the oncoming French. He seemed to be intensely anticipating their arrival. Miles turned his head to look at Davey, but neither spoke; both knew well enough the cause of Joe Pike’s state of mind. Eventually the cooking pot boiled and soon the ingredients contained therein was pronounced ready by Tom Miles, after he had stirred in four biscuits. Miles spooned out Davey’s portion, then concerned himself with Joe Pike.
“Joe! Food’s here! I needs yer pannikin.”
Pike reached behind for the flat metal dish that was lodged between the straps of his pack and threw it back to Miles, to land spinning at his feet. Miles looked again at Davey, each sharing a worried expression with the other, but Miles spooned out Joe’s portion, spread extra salt on top and then placed a piece of bread on all, bread but one day old. He thought of calling Joe back to fetch it, but human feeling for once got the better of him and he rose to carry it the few yards down to Pike. It was not possible for any kind of look from Tom Miles to lighten the mood of anyone, but he did wait until Joe looked up at him before releasing the dish. There was a look in Pike’s eyes that he had not seen before, one of both rage and despair, but, as Pike finally looked down at the well-stocked dish, Miles spoke, as cheerfully as he could.
“’Tis fish! Sent up from Corunna, with peas and potatoes, but watch out for the bones.”
Pike nodded and, as he turned towards his fire, Miles clapped his grimy hand onto Pike’s shoulder and gave him one single shake. This did elicit a response.
“Thanks Tom.”
“You’re welcome, boy.”
However, Miles did not return immediately to the fire, but halted to study Pike’s hunched figure.
“Get that inside you, Joe, then get some rest. ’Tis us as’ll be down at the river come tomorrow, or even tonight, with Frenchers on t’other side, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ll not be much cop sightin’ that Baker with no sleep what’s cleared yer ’ead.”
Pike turned his attentions from his food to look back at Miles, but said nothing. It was Miles who continued.
“’Sright! Get yer ’ead down for a few hours.”
Pike nodded once, then returned to the eating of his stew. Another explosion, further upstream, made them all look up. Another bridge had been destroyed, but that dwelt but fleetingly in their thoughts, their food was too important.
In the event their sleep was undisturbed, save for some being given the duty of standing sentry on the churning waters of the incoming tide, or the rushing melt water from the hills around at the time of the ebb. It was full dawn when the French did arrive, cavalry first, halting immediately on the valley skyline at the obvious sight of the Reserve Division drawn up on the opposing slopes on the far side of the river. A Commander of some form arrived soon after, marked by the amazing uniforms of both himself and his entourage. Then the cavalry were sent off up the valley whilst the Commander remained, at first a lone-silhouetted figure, but that for mere minutes before infantry arrived and were immediately dispersed into skirmish order to descend the valley. With his battalion still in reserve, Lacey and O’Hare watched all from their vantage point and, as the French infantry disappeared into the trees on the far side, Lacey stated the obvious.
“Here we go!”
He had barely time to draw breath before the firing began, first within the buildings of El Burgo, held by the 91st, then the conflict spread upstream to the 52nd. The crackling sound of the incessant musketry continued throughout the morning, to little effect from both sides. This was evidenced by the few killed that were dragged back onto the grass behind and the few wounded that made their way back to their surgeons; some supported, some making their own way, but it seemed to be the 52nd that was suffering most, but hardly in any real discomfort. The exchange continued all throughout the morning and at Noon, Paget rode along the rear of his men, these all well positioned within the trees or behind walls, or within the buildings of El Burgo. The 20th below and closest to the sea, remained unmolested. Inspection done, Paget spurred his horse at the slope up to the 105th. Lacey, O’Hare and Simmonds rose to meet him.
“Colonel! Your Light Company are armed with Bakers, are they not?”
“Yes Sir. Correct.”
“Right. The 95th are giving better than they are receiving, whilst, for the 52nd, it’s just a damn waste of ammunition, they’re too far away for a musket to be of much use but I’d say that the French were getting the best of it. That’s where M’sieu feels he may get over; in fact, if I’ve got it right, they’re gathering up bundles of any kind of fabric and furniture, to throw in at low tide and get over.”
At this O’Hare focused his glass on three farms on the valley slope to see mattresses, sheets, blankets and furniture of all
kinds being dragged out. The same could be seen at the French held buildings of El Burgo. All the while, Paget continued.
“These are handy fellows, these French, a cut above, I’d say. The 52nd will handle any serious assault of that nature, I feel certain, but a little discouragement of any such notion as attempting a crossing will not come amiss. So! Get your Lights down there and see if you can’t spread a little serious disaffection!”
With that he was off, cantering rapidly down the slope to check on the 20th, still sat idle. O’Hare set off to his left.
“I’ll see to it.”
Carr was sat on some tarpaulin, with Drake and Shakeshaft, idly watching the unchanging events below, but all three rose at the approach of O’Hare, who wasted no time.
“The General wants you down there.”
He pointed to the 52nd.
“To support the 52nd against a possible assault. Your rifle fire could provide the required discouragement. Take care of any that look too eager and keep them back.”
O’Hare looked at each of the three faces.
“Take care! This is just pointless, annoying, bickering over a river that cannot be crossed. Tell your men to get into good cover and choose their targets carefully, always starting with Officers and NCOs. Just pick off a few to keep them worried. I don’t want to leave any dead behind; none, at least as few as possible.”
All three saluted and Drake and Shakeshaft ran in opposite directions to instruct their Sections, leaving O’Hare alone with Carr.
“Conserve your men, Henry. There’s going to be a battle, a full set piece. Only a clear defeat of the French will get us home. We have to knock him back, right back, to buy time. As we speak, our ships haven’t arrived!”
O’Hare saw the alarm in Carr’s face.
“But, for the moment, keep that to yourself.”
He paused.
“Now, down you go!”
Carr saluted and followed his men down the steep slope. Drake led his One Section, containing the file of Davey, Miles and Pike, down to the river. First they had to run through the growing lines of 52nd wounded, then the three entered a clump of trees and undergrowth and immediately they heard the buzz and hum of musket balls from the French opposite. Drake could not be seen and so Davey looked for someone in command and found a Sergeant, hunched over and looking worried, at the point of lowering his smoking musket.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 39