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

by Martin McDowell

  “Hold here! Take positions!. Support our men out there.”

  In great contrast to the near desperation building at the bottom of the village, inside the farmhouse, all were peacefully cleaning their rifles, except Joe Pike, now examined by Davey. He was totting up a row of pencil marks, clear on the plaster of the wall. Davey was immediately incensed, he knew what it meant. He went to Pike and spun him around, to point at the marks.

  “And what the Hell is that all about? How many will be enough, eh? How many?”

  He was stopped by Ellis.

  “Never mind your cosy conversations. Get back up to the line and get some more cartridges. Take nine men, two boxes between three.”

  He indicated Pike.

  “This one’s tough enough to run the middle.”

  Davey tapped Miles on the back and six others, then they jumped out of a back window, now with its boards removed. They ran up the hill to the last wall, hearing the renewed cannon fire, but once over the wall Davey seized one of Pike’s shoulder tabs and pulled him around, As Pike spun, Davey pointed at the utter carnage at the wall, its stones now more blood red than grey. French bodies were piled three, four high, some still alive, groaning in their last agonies.

  “Does that count as enough? Take a bloody good look at that!”

  He saw the change on Pike’s face.

  “Will that sort you out?”

  He spoke no more, but pushed Pike up the hill to follow the others. They found the stacks of cartridge boxes behind where the 105th had previously stood their line, that place now marked by a row of 105th dead. Without seeking any permission, each three of the nine took two boxes, the one man in the middle holding the rope handles one in each hand. Then they started back down.

  For Lacey and his men, the situation had now, indeed, become desperate. They had no formation and many were still back in the houses plundering dead bodies, but the French attack on the village had been immediately renewed and in greater force. Lacey knew that there could be no formation firing, he had to leave it to his men to load and fire as fast as they could and hold off the French in any way available, but, in despair, he knew that he had little more than half his men trying to hold back this new attack. On top, they were outnumbered perhaps 6 to 1. Lacey found a Corporal.

  “Get around the village and tell others to pass it on. Fall back, now. Get out and back up!”

  The Corporal saluted and ran up the alleyway, then Lacey looked over the wall. There were several red-coated bodies lying out on the grass and one seemed to be Simmonds. Worse, the French Officers had sent forward their front ranks at the charge; no more the steady pace of the column, because now, knowing that they were faced with but a few Redcoats in the buildings, these French were now running forward in skirmish order. Lacey had about a dozen men around him.

  “Back. Fall back!”

  Doing his best to keep up, he and his men sprinted up the alleyway. Soon he was overtaken, but the last two of his men held at a corner, their muskets pointing down the alleyway and, as he passed them, they fired. Gasping for breath he pulled them backwards to again ascend the slope.

  “Not here. Too soon. Further up.”

  He resumed his upward run, hearing French shouts behind him.

  Meanwhile, back in the farmhouse, Carr was talking to Ellis.

  “Casualties?”

  “Two, Sir. Dead. A few more wounds but they’re still able.”

  At that moment a soldier turned away from his rifle slit.

  “Sir. You’d better take a look at this!”

  After exchanging a quick quizzical look with Ellis, Carr ran to the same rifle slit. What he saw brought an immediate order.

  “Stand to!”

  As his men rushed back to their positions, Carr tried to make some sense of what he could see. Soldiers of the 105th, in disorganised groups, were pouring out of the village, to run further up and over the stonewalls. There could only be one conclusion, that the French had quickly renewed their attack and were pushing his Regiment back and out. He took himself over to the right to see Heaviside organising a rearguard at the first wall. Carr spoke to himself, ‘Well done, Joshua’, but many 105th were still emerging from between the buildings. Some kind of crude order was being restored and the men, at least, were not just running up and away, instead, once over the first wall they were looking for orders, many simply manning the wall to make some kind of a line. Carr turned to his men.

  “I want your most accurate fire. Take careful aim and don’t risk hitting our own. Take out the first French you see. Give our lads a better chance.”

  He took up a rifle himself and slid it through the firing slit to take careful aim at the corner of a building alongside a main alleyway. Redcoats were still emerging, then he saw his Colonel, running as though through treacle. A bluecoat was close behind, then Carr fired.

  Lacey thought his heart was coming out of his chest, then he felt a hand seize the strap of his sword scabbard. He felt the tug back, then nothing, other than the sound of a bullet hitting what sounded like a skull. There came a cry from the slope above.

  “The Colonel! Help the Colonel.”

  Suddenly he was surrounded by redcoats, some with bayonets pointing back in challenge, some training their muskets back to the French, some simply helping him. He was practically carried back to the wall and then lifted over, to fall in a heap on the other side, but there were plenty of hands there to help him stand back up. He looked into the face of a soldier, it blackened and filthy, with specs of gunpowder stuck to his chin by the sweat.

  “Are you all right, Sir?"

  He reached around, down to his left side, to his canteen.

  “Here Sir. Have a swig of this. ’Tis good stuff, I traded it last night.”

  Lacey grinned between gasps, then he lifted the canteen to his lips to taste the good brandy. He grinned openly, this returned by the soldier.

  “We can’t stay here too long, Sir. Johnny’s lookin’ lively.”

  Lacey hauled himself upright from resting on his knees, but the soldier was still speaking.

  “You get back on up, Sir. We’ll hold ‘em here, then fall back ourselves.”

  Lacey nodded and turned to begin his journey, leaving Heaviside bellowing a whole series of uplifting exhortations from The Bible. Soon this was drowned by continuous musketry, his men had formed a solid line and were holding the first wall. Now somewhat recovered, he took himself up to the second wall, to find it well manned, but there was no Officer. Then Private Bates came running up, bugle in his hand.

  “Sir! Found you, Sir.”

  Lacey took a deep breath.

  “Well done, Bates.”

  Lacey looked along the wall, all his men there had their muskets held over the top, almost all had detached their bayonets to make reloading easier. Lacey took another deep breath.

  “Make ready!”

  The muskets were all lifted.

  “Sound recall.”

  Bates did so and Heaviside’s men fell back from the first wall and across the space to scale that held by Lacey and then, led by Heaviside, they all ran on further to form at the next wall up. The French came over the first wall and into view. They were firing, but many were falling from the rifle fire from the farmhouse, which was duly noted by Lacey. He waited until they were thickly gathered on his side.

  “Fire!”

  All was smoke.

  “Fall back.”

  They did so immediately and ran back to Heaviside’s wall, all to send one more volley into the smoke drifting past them. With that, Lacey ordered all back to their position on the ridge but what he saw there did nothing to reassure him, for all was a confusion of men looking for their Company Captains. With the French coming on, he doubted that his men could provide any kind of organised resistance against them and one look down told him that a solid French column was already half way up the slope between him and Elvina.

  ***

  Davey’s munition party were running down thr
ough the maze of gates that threaded through the jumble of walls, when Davey saw his Regiment in full retreat running back up the slope. Two seconds more he saw the blue of their pursuers and after two more he saw the French reaching the front of the farmhouse in dense numbers. No crowd of skirmishers this, but a whole column.

  “Run! Quick!”

  They ran the last yards, heaved the cartridge boxes in through a window then propelled themselves through to follow. Within a minute the boards were back up, but the French were all around, hammering at the back door and attacking the front. Every man inside was loading and firing at a frantic pace, but Ellis noticed the nine, not immediately manning a firing slit, stood in some confusion.

  “You! B’ain’t this your fight, nor summat? Get to a window, or I’ll do you for desertion, see if I don’t.”

  The nine immediately obeyed and joined where they could. Davey looked at Pike. His pencil was no-where to be seen.

  Lacey hurried to his men gathering on the ridgetop, but the confusion had not in any way diminished and a rough guess showed that now there were many of his Regiment missing. Bates was still at his side.

  “Sound form up.”

  However, as Bates blew the notes, an Aide from Moore galloped up.

  “Sir! A message from General Moore.”

  His horse performed a circle as the French cannonfire, now resumed, whistled above.

  “Pull your men back and reform. The General is bringing up the Division Reserve to relieve you. Please pull your men back to clear the way.”

  Much relieved, Lacey nodded and the Aide rode off, then Lacey pushed his way through the melee of men, taking Bates with him.

  “Sound fall back.”

  Leaving Bates to sound off again, Lacey walked to where he could see The Colours. He was utterly tired and weary, but he knew his role, that being to rally his men and that began with the Colour Party. He went immediately to Rushby and Neape.

  “Fall back, 300 yards and stand up The Colours. The men will form on you. Hurry, get there first.”

  As the two young men trotted back, their Colours over their shoulders, Deakin remained to look at his Colonel, his face very anxious.

  “Sir. Are you all right, Sir?”

  Lacey nodded, then, extraordinarily, he patted Deakin on the arm.

  “Simply my age, Colour Sergeant. Just feeling my age.”

  Deakin nodded, grinning, but the rest of his face showed that he was not reassured.

  “Yes, Sir. There’s a lot of us feelin’ a dose of that, Sir.”

  Lacey smiled back and gently pushed Deakin, his Colour Sergeant, on after the two Ensigns. Lacey took the time to walk after his men and, by the time he got there, they were in some order. O’Hare came running over.

  “Are we in reserve? Could we be called upon again?”

  Lacey placed his hand on O’Hare’s shoulder, more for his own support than to deliver any comfort.

  “I fear so, yes. We must assume so.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Have you seen that new column?”

  O’Hare nodded, then asked a question of his own.

  “Have you seen Simmonds?”

  “No, not back here. I doubt he got out of Elvina.”

  He looked fully at O’Hare, but their looks exchanged more between them than Lacey’s simple order, which came next.

  “Ammunition!”

  As O’Hare ran off, Lacey walked on to take a look at his men, perhaps they would encourage him as much as he could them.

  On the left of the reforming line, stood Richard Shakeshaft and his Section of the Light Company. He looked at his men; many carried wounds, some disabling, but all were stood their place and all were drinking or eating. They had had nothing hot since leaving their messfires before dawn, bar Moore’s tea and hard biscuits. Saunders, Bennett and Byford were on the far left of their Section, which placed them on the far left of their whole Battalion. They heard a sound from behind them, from behind their left shoulders, then turned to see something which even they could not fail to judge as a wholly impressive sight. It was two battalions in line, two deep and all in step, one battalion behind the other in support. Each line two men deep, they stretched across the ridgeline for the width of 400 men and the Colours for both Battalions, although reluctant to spread out fully in the faint wind, were clear enough and special enough to warrant curiousity; there were four and all crimson.

  Saunders was nearest as the ranks passed by, these being the Grenadier Company of the new arrivals, in their place on the right of the passing Battalions.

  “Who’re you?”

  A growl came from a huge Grenadier Corporal, with distinctive sideburns.

  “First Battalion, First Foot Guards.”

  Saunders was not quietened.

  “And them behind?”

  The same growl.

  “Second Battalion!”

  The lines marched on, drawing the admiration of all on that side of the 105th, all stood at rest eating hard bread and drinking water. Meanwhile, new supplies and sustenance were being passed out, ammunition from the Stores Orderlies, bread and cold meat from Sedgwicke and the followers, which he had organised throughout the morning. Shakeshaft looked at Fearnley, now chewing bread and cold boiled pork. The question was now in the mind of both, with their Company now having been pulled pack and now relatively at peace, ‘Wonder how the Captain’s doing?’

  Were he there to see for himself, Shakeshaft would be in a state much more uneasy. With the windows boarded up, bar a slit, Drake’s Section were fighting in a nightmare of near dark, made more so by the smoke from their flintlocks. Drake had pulled lightly wounded men away from the firing slits to clean rifles passed back to them, these being too fouled to be fired until their barrels were cleaned and their flint changed. Losing the fire of three men was little compared to many muskets failing to fire. There was little talking, beyond curses, practically the only sound there was came from their musketry, but then Ellis pulled back from his firing slit.

  “They’re tryin’ again, Sir!”

  Carr ran to the slit and looked out. More French were running to the porch at the front, carrying anything considered combustible for a second attempt at setting the building alight. All around lay dead French soldiers. At less than 100 yards range, the Light Company’s rifles were exacting a fearful toll on the French Voltiguers, while their main column was pushing on past and up to capture the series of stonewalls, but with noticeably less than usual Gallic vigour. They were well within range of Carr’s farmhouse and the rifle assault from Carr’s men onto their flank, killing Officers and NCO’s, was such that the French Commanding Officer had all but abandoned the effort to take every wall up to the British line. Seeing the damage inflicted by Carr’s Lights, he had detached men onto the farmhouse which stood like a blockhouse fully in the path of the right hand files of his column. They had tried to fire the farmhouse once, but it was all stone with a tiled roof, even the front porch was of stone. The first attempt had been a total failure, not enough material that would burn could be set in place, but now they had gathered all that could be found from the nearby houses of the village. Carr had to quickly decide as he looked out, whether or not to draw men away from the back and the sides to strengthen the defence of the front of the house? A volley of shots from the floor above made the decision for him and many carrying armfuls of fuel for the fire fell dead. Some material was thrown into the porch, but anyone carrying a burning torch had given themselves a death sentence. Carr was satisfied. His men were holding well and providing grave problems for the French before they could advance further up the ridge, but then a cannonball, fired by a weak charge, penetrated between two houses, ricocheted off a wall and passed through the roof of Carr’s farmhouse. Red tiles showered down.

  ***

  Although perhaps they should have been, thoughts on the fate of Carr and his men were far from the minds of Lacey and O’Hare as they stood together. Lacey was looking along his line,
estimating his losses so far, whilst O’Hare was watching the backs of the Guards as they advanced forward to the 105th’s old position above Elvina. Suddenly, there was a roar of musketry as the 1st Guards Battalion delivered their first volley, then O’Hare’s face changed from one of relieved pleasure to one of horror.

  “Oh God! No!”

  He had been watching Moore leading the Guards forward, when he saw his Commander suddenly sent spinning from his horse, the epaulette from his left shoulder flying through the air and, sickeningly, his left arm swinging back as though it were the arm of a corn flail. O’Hare touched Lacey’s arm.

  “Moore! They’ve got Moore!”

  Shock also came into Lacey’s face and he spun around to follow the direction that O’Hare was indicating. The Guards had advanced on, leaving Moore and a group of anxious attendants behind. He was on the ground, barely moving, but a blanket was being spread beside him. After being carefully lifted onto it, with Guardsmen and men of the 42nd on the four corners, he was carried back and soon he reached the 105th, but little could be seen within the blanket. Lacey looked at O’Hare.

  “What do you think?”

  O’Hare shook his head.

  “No. He was hit by a round shot. I’d say it took away the whole of his left shoulder.”

  He continued shaking his head.

  “He’ll not survive that.”

  Lacey had recovered slightly.

  “So, now it’s Hope. He leads us now and where he is, God only knows, and I doubt that Hope himself knows that he is now Commander in Chief. He’ll be running his own bit of this affair, just like us.”