“We’ve been sent down here, Sarn’t, ’cos we’ve got Bakers. Where do you want us?”
The NCO did not withdraw his attention from the far bank for one instant, ceaselessly studying the movements of the French opposite, particularly looking for any that were making him their target. The reply was terse, as the Sergeant subconsciously reloaded.
“Just find a position and pick off what you can. These is tasty lads, seems they’ve got a more accurate musket than is common amongst most Frogs.”
Davey nodded and returned to Miles and Pike, the former flattened to the rear of a thick tree, but Joe Pike had gone well forward, almost to the river edge, and was already firing his rifle, having jammed his sword bayonet into the wood to act as a rest to steady his aim. Davey didn’t like what he saw, Pike was too forward and too exposed for his liking. He was the first he addressed.
“Joe! Keep in. Careful shots. All as is needed is just to pick a few off, just to keep ’em back. No risks, now. These has got some gun as is better than the average. So take care.”
The reply was a brief look up and a nod, whilst he reloaded from the cover of his tree. Davey then looked at Miles, who was peeking out from behind the trunk of his own tree, studying the French opposite.
“’Tis them tassel swingin’ bastards what we saw off at Maida, John. I’ve been wonderin’ when they’d show up. But there’s others there besides, them with all the red!”
Davey took a look for himself. There were indeed the yellow decorated shakoes and shoulder epaulettes that he remembered from Sicily, with the distinctive tassel beside the shako, but there was another type of French skirmisher present, distinguished by a red highlighted shako and a distinctive red collar.
“Now, just who are you, all sparked up in red?”
The question was spoken out loud and, immediately answered by Carr speaking from behind him.
“Tirailleurs. French sharpshooters, just like us. The others, our old friends, are Voltiguers; assault troops, they’ve just got a musket, but those in red have a hunting gun. Give them priority.”
Carr left immediately to pass on the instruction elsewhere, leaving Davey to pass it on to Miles and Pike.
“Tom. Joe. Did you hear that? The ones with red, get them first, they’ve a better musket!”
Miles nodded, before sighting from behind his tree trunk, to send a musket ball across the river. He, as his training dictated and his natural cunning confirmed, was firing obliquely across the river, which meant that he could remain concealed behind the tree, out of the view of anyone opposite. Joe Pike, on the other hand, was choosing his targets from anyone he saw, both opposite and further along the bank. To sight on a target directly opposite meant leaving the security of his tree, wholly contrary to their training and it was simply reckless. Davey’s worries increased, added to by the fact that Joe was much further forward than them both and the buzz of French musket balls was too thick to make him risk going forward to join him. All that any French sharpshooter opposite had to do was wait for Pike to emerge. It was wild and careless, which Davey realised and he was now annoyed.
“Joe! Fer Chrissakes! Keep behind that tree, fire up or down but not straight over. Keep back in, or they’ll bloody well get you!”
The only reaction from Joe was to look up as he reloaded, then look back down to tip some powder into the firing pan. Davey despaired. He looked over the river and there indeed, but 50 yards back from the bank was a Tirailleur, kneeling with his musket trained all too likely on the point where Joe would emerge, him now halfway through reloading. Davey shifted his loaded musket to his left shoulder, not the natural side, but he had no choice. He rested the end of the barrel on a very fortuitous branch, sighted using his left eye and fired. All was immediately obscured by smoke, but not enough to prevent Davey from seeing Pike bring up his own rifle, then take the time to look for a target downstream, but plainly he had failed to see one and would not wait for one to arrive, so he emerged further out, to sight and then fire at an enemy directly opposite. Davey gave vent to a huge sigh of relief as Pike stepped back into cover to reload, then he looked directly across himself. Of the Tirailleur there was nothing to be seen, but there were many other French, of both varieties. Davey looked across at Miles, now reloaded and patiently waiting for a target upstream.
“Tom! Joe’s got to come back. Out there he’ll get himself killed, an’ it don’t seem to bother him, one way or t’other! Stay loaded, an’ wait for me.”
Davey reloaded within 20 seconds and, still left-handed, trained his rifle across the river. By now Pike was again ready, but Davey was angry and determined.
“Joe! Listen!”
No reaction.
“Pike! Listen! Damn well listen!”
The expletive did cause Pike to look back to Davey.
“You’re comin’ back! You hear? Back to us, and that’s an order, and if you disobeys and still lives, I’ll bloody well get you flogged! See if I don’t!”
John Davey, although superior in rank to both Miles and Pike, had never before given either what could be called a direct order. This first time did give Pike some cause to stop. He looked back to see as angry a face on John Davey as he’d ever seen and from that face he received specific instructions.
“Find a target upstream. Upstream! After we fire, then you fire, then you runs back, here, to us.”
He paused and was relieved to see Pike still looking at him.
“Clear?”
Pike nodded. He reached around to pull out his bayonet and dropped it into its scabbard, then he hefted his Rifle to his shoulder and sighted at a target that was, much to the relief of Davey, as he had ordered. Davey then switched his attention to Miles.
“Tom! Find a target.”
The answer came quickly back.
“Got one.”
Davey sighted his own weapon on the nearest threatening Tirailleur, directly opposite. He needed to be further exposed himself than he wished and a bullet buzzed past his head.
“Fire!”
Both fired, followed by Pike. He sprinted back the ten yards to Davey, but Davey was still maddened. As Pike ran back, Davey tripped him, then dragged him into cover. He immediately grabbed his cross belts and hauled him closer, to look directly into his face.
“Now you listen! I knows that you wants to kill Frenchers and I knows why, but, sure as God’s in His Heaven, they’ll kill you, if you goes about it like some no-knowin’ half-baked newcome fresher!”
Davey stared harder into the astonished eyes.
“You’m lucky you’m still alive, and where would Mary be then? Well?”
No answer as a bullet hummed above them, but the outburst had calmed Davey. Somewhat.
“We wants to kill Frenchers, too. Any surprise?”
He released Pike’s cross belts.
“Mary’s of our own. She and your child matters to us ‘n’all, y’know. We wants to pay ‘em out, same as you, but to stay alive still. So’s we can do a few more.”
He let the words sink in, but the faint humour lightened both their faces. Davey’s tone dropped to one of giving advice, rather than admonishment.
“But you carry on like that, you’ll get killed and perhaps one of us on top, tryin’ to get you out of it!”
At that point Ellis arrived, none too pleased with what he saw; two good men lying behind a log, neither sighting across the river, nor reloading, for both their muskets were on the ground.
“And what the bloody Hell’s this? You two on for a handy kip?”
Davey held up his hand, which halted Ellis’ forthcoming tirade; just as well, for he was winding up for plenty more.
“Sorry Sarn’t. Joe here found himself a bit far forward and we had to cover him coming back. We’re alright now!”
Ellis was only marginally mollified.
“Well then, I suppose we can now say that all is just fine and dandy for you both.”
He raised his voice to a shout.
“So now perha
ps you’d like to join in what the rest of us is all about doin’! Start by pickin’ up them bundooks!”
With that Ellis clutched his own rifle across his chest and ran on. Davey looked at Pike.
“There! That’s the other kind of trouble your lame brained ways can get us into!”
Somewhat chastened, Pike recovered both weapons. He gave Davey his, then began the process of reloading, whilst Davey looked carefully at him for a full half minute. Pike’s eyes were narrowed and focused on the task in hand, but his mouth was set in a grim line, with several more furrowing his brow, and it was plain to Davey that here was no longer the trusting, unknowing boy of the past month. Pike completed his reload and pulled back the cocking hammer with relish, then rose to move forward, but Davey placed a hand on his forearm.
“Wait for me. We’ll ease forward together, and fire from prone if needed. No one’s getting’ killed here, not for bugger all use. Just to answer their fire is all as is needed.”
Davey quickly reloaded and they both crawled forward. Davey allowed Pike to take a tree on his left, whilst he found one that enabled him to fire obliquely downstream, across Pike’s line of fire. In this way he kept a close eye on Pike’s actions and was relieved to see him obeying his training and not leave the cover of the thick tree trunk. Feeling more confident that Pike’s moment of madness was over, he took time to examine what was happening opposite. There were now many blue uniforms prone on the ground, with some writhing in agony and some dragging themselves back into cover. Their Bakers had made a difference and the French skirmishers were now much more wary. There were far fewer moving forward to close the range across the river; in fact most were unseen, hiding behind cover. Davey concluded that if he, himself, saw no point in taking risks if there was to be no major assault, why shouldn’t the French opposite think similar?
Night fell, but there was no abandonment of their side of the river by the British. Most withdrew to their mess lines, leaving only a thick picket line, composed of the remaining Companies of the 105th and the 20th, who had not been in action at all. The moon was full and appeared regularly from behind broken cloud and, whilst Deakin and Halfway, now in the picket line, kept watch from behind a thick fallen branch, Stiles, Peters, Nicholls and Sergeant Hill, snoozed in the dip behind. Being friends for almost two decades, Deakin and Halfway had no need of conversation between themselves; besides, in the dark, the French could be mere yards away, therefore both kept silent watch on the bank opposite. The stream, now much lower, was no longer soundless as it ran over and amongst the stones and tree roots of its riverbed, instead it now tumbled and gurgled on its way to the sea but a half-mile distant.
Suddenly, in the moonlight, Halfway brought his musket up to the ready, resting on the log.
“Jed! Look yonder.”
Deakin looked at Halfway, who was pointing with one finger across the rough bark. He looked and saw a figure, plainly a French soldier from his white breeches and white cross belts, approaching the far bank.
“Wait!”
Both studied and awaited developments, the first being to see a clutch of canteens, the second being the soldier lowering himself down the bank to submerge them all into the water. Halfway was affronted.
“Cheeky bugger. Come down ’ere, under our guns like that! ’E’s takin’ one bloody great chance! Who’s he think we are, a bunch of wet recruits?”
Deakin settled back behind the log.
“Ah, leave’n’ be! He's just come down for some water. Can’t be much up there on top, not with us holding the river. You shoot him and you’ll start up a firefight and lads’ll just get killed or maimed, and to what end? I just wants to get back to Corunna and get on out, an’ I don’t care how many live Frenchers I leaves behind. That’s for some other day.”
He settled his arms across his chest.
“Just watch’n. Make sure ’tis only water ’ee’s come for, an’ that ’ee’s on his own.”
A minute passed, then Deakin sensed Halfway rising up above the log, but it was not to use his musket, but to make the point he wanted to earlier.
“Now say thanks, you lucky French sod!”
Deakin looked at him in the half dark.
“What was that for?”
“Well, I wasn’t goin’ to let’n think that he could fill all they canteens without no sort of let nor hindrance from such as us!”
Chuckling softly, Deakin rose to look over the log, but of the “watergatherer” there was no sign, but one canteen was floating down the river, perhaps dropped in surprise at hearing Halfway’s admonishment. Both settled to watching, listening to the river and watching the patches of moonlight track across to give strange shapes of shadow to the trees and shrubs opposite. However, their next disturbance came from behind, in the shape of their Company Commander, Captain Heaviside.
“Anything to report?”
As the Senior, it was Deakin who answered.
“Nothing Sir, bar one lad of theirs what come down for some water. We let him get on, Sir, saw no point in startin’ things off again. Sir.”
The reply from under the silhouette of his shako was immediate and supportive, and a quote that Deakin well understood.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Matthew 5, verse 7.”
“We can all only hope so, Sir.”
With the dawn, the 52nd, the 95th and their own Light Company came back down to relieve them, in anticipation of a renewal of hostilities, but not one shot was exchanged, although blue uniforms could be seen moving amongst the bushes and trees set far back. Those of the 105th who had kept watch through the night, retired for food and rest, whilst their own Light Company and the two front line battalions, maintained a watch. At mid morning the bugles blew “recall” and “form up”; their shrill notes that echoed around the valley being given added urgency by Paget’s Staff riding hither and thither, pushing all into a hurry, until the whole Reserve Division was ready to march off, with the 105th in the lead. Carr’s men had to run to arrive on time to join their column as they started off and as he passed him he inquired of Simmonds.
“Why the urgency, Sir?”
Simmonds halted his own hurrying.
“Frog cavalry have got over the river inland. Place called Celas, seven miles inland. So, it’s quick march for us back to Corunna.”
Carr turned to salute the Battalion’s Second Major and, as he did so, he faced across the valley, where he could see hordes of French infantry pouring down the slope to get to the river and, more importantly for them, the site of the bridge, now merely two forlorn buttresses.
***
Relations were not good between Beatrice Prudoe and her Chaplain husband. As their situation had improved, in terms of both health and strength, he had looked with covetous eyes at the mule that was now being led on by Mary and Eirin. The patient animal bore on his back the two smallest children, these being Kevin and Sinead Mulcahy, and he also pulled the travois that carried rations and bedding. He, that being Pablo, having been kept alive and defended, was now a firm favourite with all the children and was also spoken to as though a family member by Bridie and Nelly.
Nevertheless, as the spires and cathedral towers of Corunna revealed their finer detail, Chaplain Prudoe had allowed his thoughts to dwell more and more on his status as a King’s Officer, and a spiritual one besides. He considered it to be lower than his dignity to continue walking, therefore he must ride, albeit on a mule. True, it was of lower status than a horse, but superior to a donkey. Thus, on the evening of the last day before entering the city, he had gone to the tethered mule and boldly untied him and led him off, with no word at all to the women, merely a terse sentence to Eirin, who felt in no place to argue nor even say a word. Prudoe was a Commissioned Officer, but one down from God.
“I have a requirement of this animal.”
However, minutes later Pablo was being led back by his wife, Beatrice. She returned the animal into the charge of Mary, with but one sentence f
rom herself.
“I’m sure that you have a continued need for Pablo here, therefore I am returning him into your charge.”
All expected a heated exchange to ensue from around the Prudoe campfire, but there was none. Instead, come the following morning, Pablo, continuously being patted and rubbed by both Mary and Eirin and continuously chewing biscuits, was being led sedately towards the town gate. Of the Chaplain there was nothing to be seen, whilst of his wife, there was much more, she was walking with Bridie and Nelly, talking about everything from sewing to the sea voyage home. Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke was with the children, teaching them their ABC and their numbers one to twenty. It was as pleasant and carefree a scene as it was possible to behold, despite their approaching the lowering walls and battlements of the vital port and city. However, in one instant a colossal explosion coming from somewhere over on their left, inland, shattered it. The only creature that did not start in alarm was Pablo, whilst the devout Catholics in the followers feverishly genuflected, but there was no following silence, for this was filled with the sound of falling glass, the explosion had shattered every window in Corunna. Bridie looked beyond the walls to the now gaping windows.
“Jesus, Parson! What on earth could that be all about?”
Sedgwicke was now enough of a soldier to realize what a retreat and an evacuation meant; the wholesale destruction of stores and munitions. He pointed to the huge cloud of smoke, ascending and extending over on their left.
“Gunpowder, Mrs. Deakin. Being destroyed, all in one go it would seem.”
What this destruction also meant, in addition, was confirmed when they entered the city gate, to be confronted with yet another threat to Pablo, because a Provost Corporal came forward to seize his bridle.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 40