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

by Martin McDowell

  With her family now placed on the lowest deck, Bridie was returning to the quayside with a pot and a saucepan, because an Officer of the Royal Wagon Train had decided that she had too much baggage and these two items had to be left behind. When back on the cobbles, she noticed Beatrice Prudoe, alone and bereft, and in somewhat of a daze, such that Bridie had to pull her to the edge of the quay to clear the way for the next Battalion arriving for embarkation.

  “Mrs. Prudoe! Are things all right with you? Is your good husband near at hand, now?”

  Mrs. Prudoe looked down at the concerned face looking up. She took a deep breath, its passage broken twice by sobs of emotion.

  “My husband I have not seen for two days. I have no idea of his whereabouts, which makes me reluctant to board any ship without him.”

  She took another deep breath.

  “I really am wholly unsure as to what to do!”

  Bridie took her arm and did her best to laugh it off.

  “Ah sure, now isn’t that the army all over! On such as this, I’ve been split from me husband for days, weeks! You get poked into any old hole, without so much as a word or even a quick good-bye.”

  She nodded up at her, smiling for extra emphasis.

  “The thing to do is to follow the drum, like, and not get left behind. Once at home all can be sorted out, whilst here, right now, there’s more order in a herd of cats than the job they’re makin’ of getting’ us out of here! He’s most likely been pushed onto some other ship, havin’ been told that we all was on it.”

  She saw the hope come into Mrs. Prudoe’s face.

  “There, I’m sure that’s the truth of it, now!”

  She took Mrs. Prudoe by the elbow.

  “You come on board and you’re more than welcome to mess down with us. Then, a few days, and we’ll be home. We can have a better sort out there.”

  With her hand still on Mrs. Prudoe’s elbow, she lay down the pot and the saucepan, each grating on the hard stone.

  “I’ve to leave these behind, as ordered by some gombeen Officer!”

  Beatrice Prudoe smiled.

  “No need! I’ll take them as my own!”

  With that, she reached down herself and picked up both and then, grinning, both women supported each other up the narrow gangplank.

  Elsewhere, on the same ship, Carr was doing anything other than stood with spirits uplifted. He was looking over the ship’s side, across the whole of Corunna Bay and urgently pulling out his telescope to study its furthest point. A quick adjustment confirmed his fears; the fort there was flying the French flag and between there and the opposite arm of the bay, across the full entrance, was but 1000 yards. He looked around and saw what he took to be some rank of Officer of the Dauncy. He pointed to the, now French, fort.

  “That fort, there. What’s it called?"

  The Officer did not need to take too careful a look.

  “Fort San Diego. Titchy little place, but it covers the bay.”

  Carr paused for thought.

  “How far from the main channel out of the harbour?”

  Again the man did not need to look.

  “Two cables! That’s 400 yards to you, give or take!”

  “What’ve they got there?”

  The man looked puzzled, so Carr expanded.

  “Calibre of gun?”

  “That Sir, I could not say.”

  Carr hurried away to the cabins below. He was looking for Lacey or O’Hare but found only Sergeant Bryce, Lacey’s Clerk.

  “Where’s the Colonel?”

  “Still ashore Sir.”

  “Major Lacey?”

  “With him, Sir. They’re handing over our report, Sir, of the battle and our casualties, Sir. They was woken early to write it, Sir.”

  Carr’s lips narrowed with impatience.

  “Where?”

  “General Hope’s Headquarters. Sir.”

  Carr hurried back on deck and down the gangplank. He did not know if anyone else had seen the Tricolour and whether General Hope may already know, but he was not prepared to take the chance. Therefore, using his knowledge from when he first entered Corunna to obtain food and supplies, he went straight to the same building. Entering the building, the first thing that hit him was the heat, whether from numerous bodies running numerous vital errands or from the huge fires of paper burning in the grates, he did not know, but all was a hive of activity, perhaps not frantic, but certainly on that side of urgent. The one area of calm was a Major sat at a desk at the foot of a magnificent staircase, all being of white marble; steps, risers and balustrade, at least what could be seen of it, such was the traffic both ascending and descending. Carr went up to him.

  “Excuse me, but I’m now aware of something that the General should know.”

  The Major looked up and folded his arms, his whole demeanour a study of effortless superiority. Carr appeared, after all, to be a mere Captain.

  “And what might that be?”

  Carr stared insolently back at him.

  “That the fort covering the passage out of here, the exit from the bay, is now in the hands of the French. Their flag is flying over it. Its name is Fort San Diego. If it has naval guns, we are in trouble. If all that the Frogs can put in there are their own field guns then we will probably get away with it. So, it would be a very good idea to find out the calibre of whatever’s in there. ”

  He paused as the Major’s face changed to one of deep concern, but Carr continued.

  “I’m willing to pursue the matter myself. I would have thought that the Spanish Officers now preparing a defence for this place would have some idea, but to find that out I would need an interpreter.”

  The Major was now organising a pen and paper.

  “I will compose a note now and see that it is passed in. Right now, as you can imagine, the General’s a bit up to his eyes, as it were. If you would find out what you can, and then return, by then I may have a reply. Or perhaps I should wait for what you discover. You are?”

  “Carr, Major Carr. Brevet from yesterday.”

  The Major nodded, already writing. Carr stood waiting, for clamouring seconds, then his patience ran out. He leant on the desk and over the Major.

  “An interpreter?”

  The Major stopped writing and looked up, then looked around, to fix his gaze on a young figure in a Spanish uniform, whom he motioned over. The young man came to the attention and saluted, then the Major made the introduction.

  “This is Teniente Luis Da Costa. He has been giving good service with any translating we require.”

  Carr wasted no time in explaining what he needed, but he was disappointed that the Lieutenant did not already know.

  “I am not of this town, Senor Carr. I am not knowing. We need Officer of this soldiers, how you say, ‘garrison’?

  Carr nodded

  “Garrison, yes. Very good. Let’s go find one.”

  Finding one meant joining the columns of men and material going to and from the walls, but the journey was short. However, once on the ramparts, even Carr’s single mindedness was distracted to see several red uniforms working to fill in what looked like a deep hole in the walkway. Da Costa noticed Carr’s puzzlement.

  “Your General, General Moore. He has been buried up here! There!”

  As Da Costa pointed, Carr nodded and, curiousity satisfied, allowed himself to be guided to an Officer supervising the placing of a gun. ‘At least he should know something of the subject,’ thought Carr. Da Costa plainly thought likewise, this evidenced by his next words to Carr, now that they were stood close to that very Officer.

  “This Capitano is the Artillery Officer for Corunna. He should know the size of the guns.”

  Da Costa immediately began his questioning.

  “El fuerte San Diego es tenido por el francés. ¿Qué es el calibre de los fusiles allí?”

  The Officer looked at Da Costa, then at Carr. It was plain he had realised that it was Carr who wanted to know, so he spoke directly to him
.

  “Veinte cuatro de sus libras.”

  Da Costa translated.

  “El Capitano says twenty four of your pounds.”

  Carr looked at Da Costa. 24 was not good.

  “Ask him if the guns have been spiked. A nail through the touchhole!”

  Da Costa looked wholly flummoxed. He had no idea what Carr had said, yet alone have to translate it. Carr saw the helplessness on his face, so he went over to the gun the Capitano had been supervising, pointed to the touchhole and went through the motions of hammering a nail down through it.

  “A nail! Hammered into the hole for fire!”

  Da Costa did his best.

  “Un clavo martilló en el hoyo del fuego.”

  The Capitano’s face changed to “how should I know?”, with his arms outspread, palms upward. The message was obvious, so Carr turned to Da Costa.

  “Are the guns still there?”

  The translation brought a repeat performance of the outstretched arms, but he did add some words.

  “Yo no pienso, pero yo no estoy seguro.”

  Da Costa now looked equally helpless as Carr listened.

  “He is thinking not, but he is not sure.”

  Carr nodded.

  “Thank you. I must now return.”

  He bowed in the direction of the Captain then descended from the ramparts, but not before executing a very respectable salute at ‘eyes left’ towards Moore’s grave, then to hurry back to the Headquarters and the bottom of the marble staircase. The Major was still there, with the note to one side, evidently waiting for Carr’s addition.

  “24 lbs. They may be spiked, they may not. They may still be there, they may not.”

  The Major added the information, called over a Corporal and proffered the note to him, but Carr intervened.

  “I’ll take that up myself!”

  He seized the note and ascended the stairs, two at a time, his boots making a solid connection with each step. He went to the tallest, busiest door that led from the landing and approached another Major. This time he thought proper introductions would help.

  “Major Carr. One Hundred and Fifth! I have something here that the General should see. It’s important.”

  The appearance of Carr, black eye, its eyebrow with a livid scar, another scar emerging from beneath his shako and his uniform in the same state as it was at the final minute of the battle, upper right sleeve ripped open, had some effect on the Major, but also did the Regimental Number on Carr’s shako. The conduct of the 105th ‘Rag and Bone Boys’, had circulated. He opened the door.

  “Go in. There’s a bit of a queue, but that’ll get where it needs to be”

  Carr entered what was plainly a library. Tens of large sets of books filled the shelves from floor to ceiling, creating an oddly calming patchwork of several different colours all around each of the four walls. The ceiling displayed paintings of neck wrenching breadth, of galleons being tossed in a gale, sails and rigging in such disorder as to do more harm than good, but the British Officers in the room did full justice to its academic ambiance, all studying maps and documents like so many distinguished antiquarians. All were dressed in red, save two in Naval blue. However, despite the lack of movement, the tension in the air was palpable.

  There was a room beyond the library, its entrance guarded by another desk and a full Colonel sat commanding its extensive surface. At the desk was a queue, but the Colonel was dealing with each person waiting with speedy efficiency. Soon, Carr was stood before him and, eschewing the need for words, the Colonel stuck out his hand to take the note and read it. Then he looked up at Carr.

  “I’ll see that this is sent in.”

  Carr’s concerns, which had formed themselves whilst standing in the queue, were immediately aroused. If the fleet was sunk by heavy cannonfire as they left the bay, they, these being the powers that be, would look for a scapegoat and that would be him, unless he had proof that the information was delivered.

  “Thank you, Sir, but I would very much appreciate being able to leave here with an acknowledgement.”

  The Colonel seemed to have read Carr’s mind. What Carr had discovered was, indeed, of the highest importance. The Colonel stood.

  “Wait here!”

  Carr stood aside, allowing the next in the queue to take his place and within five minutes the Colonel had returned, still with the note. He handed it back to Carr.

  “Thank you, Captain. The General is grateful for the trouble you have taken.”

  Carr took the note and saluted.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Carr stepped away and opened the note. At its foot it said, simply,

  “Information acknowledged. Gen. Hope. 17th Jan.”

  Carr thrust the paper into his side pocket and hurried out of the building and back to the ship. Once down amongst the cabins he found Bryce again, still alone. Bryce looked up at Carr’s sudden entrance and questions.

  “The Colonel? Major O’Hare?”

  Bryce dropped his quill at the ferocity of Carr’s questions

  “Still not returned, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

  The last words Carr did not hear, he was out and hurrying back on deck. There he found someone who, at last, could be of help, this being Sergeant Major Gibney, who sprang to attention and saluted.

  “Major Carr, Sir.”

  Plainly Gibney had heard of Carr’s Brevet.

  “Sar’ Major. I want 40 men, four from each Company, to go back ashore and return with anything they can find that will float; float well enough to keep somebody up, in the water. Get them back up here to me.”

  “Yessir, but we could be leaving soon, Sir.”

  Carr’s temper resurfaced.

  “Then it needs to be done as soon as possible, doesn’t it!”

  Gibney saluted and hurried off, to disappear down a companionway to where the men were placed, all now asleep or soon to be. The first Officer he came to was Carravoy and, as was his nature, he was blunt and to the point, wasting no words to explain an order dispensed from a superior.

  “Sir. Four of your men are needed to go back ashore, Sir.”

  Carravoy looked at him, more than a little annoyed.

  “By whose orders?”

  “Major Carr’s, Sir.”

  The words impacted upon Carravoy as though he had just been punched. He leaned forward towards Gibney. The first word heavily accented.

  “Major Carr?”

  The pointed emphasis was lost on Gibney.

  “Yes Sir. I believe it to be urgent Sir. He needs a squad of 40.”

  Both Carravoy’s brows and jaws came together, his mind churning in all directions. He had expected the Brevetcy to have arrived by now and he had put the delay down to the turmoil of their evacuation, but now his hopes were totally dashed and, on top, he was in receipt of an order from Carr. Carr, of all people! He exhaled a deep breath.

  “Four, you say! You pick them out!”

  Ameshurst had been sat close by and he had heard all and fully understood all, including all implications.

  “I’ll be one, Sar’Major and I’ll find three more. You get on to the other Companies. We meet on deck?”

  Gibney saluted, grateful to be no longer dealing with a very irritated Carravoy.

  “Yes Sir. On deck Sir. Thank you Sir.”

  He saluted and hurried off. Ameshurst saw no need to converse with Carravoy and so he did not, instead he chose three men still awake and led them up the companionway to the weather deck where Carr was waiting. Within 10 minutes the 40 were back on the quayside and within an hour they were back carrying all manner of possible flotsam. The best were small barrels, the worst, bales of cork, whilst in between were small bouys, fishing net floats and a type of bottle wrapped in straw. Carr looked at the collection with more dismay than hope. It would be enough for the followers and the children, plus the wounded. The rest of the battalion would have to take their chances and, after all, a sinking ship releases all kinds of bits and pieces that floa
t! Carr looked at his men looking at him, each wondering at the reaction they could expect from such a paltry assemblage, but they should not have worried.

  “Well done, men! You’ve done your best. Now, get these down to the wounded and the followers, and you are to spread no alarm. Tell them that it is just a precaution, just in case they find themselves in the water. Well done again! Go now.”

  The men each gathered into their arms and hands whichever of the buoyant items they could and began the first of several journeys below decks. Carr walked to the stern, climbed the companionway up to the quarterdeck and viewed the French flag, thinking to himself, ‘I wonder, just what are you cooking up over there?’ He pulled out his telescope and focused it. On the slope above the fort, significantly above, the French had ranged a long battery of field guns. ‘Why there?’ he questioned. ‘Was it because the main embrasures were filled with potent 24’s or were they higher up to add to their range? Were the embrasures blocked by spiked guns, or was it the extra height what mattered?’ He lowered the glass and shook his head. This was mere conjecture, only time would tell. He walked back to the first companionway down; he would spend the waiting time by checking on his own wounded, did they have their own piece of ‘flotsam’? It did little for his mood when an orderly came up past him carrying something in a bloody blanket. The orderly went to an equally sanguine blanket, folded it back and added a severed arm to the gathering of shattered limbs already there. These would be jettisoned overboard once they were fully out at sea. The orderly replaced the fold of blanket and chased away a seagull perched knowingly nearby.

  ***

  Meanwhile more waiting was taking place but with a greater degree of impatience. Captain Lord Carravoy was waiting for the return of either of his Superior Officers, either Lacey or O’Hare would suffice and in the event he got the latter, him hurrying back to his cabin. Carravoy straightened himself at O’Hare’s approach.

  “Sir, might I have a word?”