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

by Martin McDowell

  He struck an absurd, ham acted, heroic pose.

  “Captain! Already am I acting as such!”

  Cecily beamed and Jane finally released Carr’s hands to clap delightedly, whilst looking frequently from one to the other.

  “Oh, that’s grand. We’re so proud of you both. Aren’t we Cecily?”

  Cecily was in Seventh Heaven. If confirmed, then she and Drake would marry. She made no reply, other than to clasp her hands under her chin and beam up at Drake. Jane now decided that she must break the spell.

  “We must go!”

  At that, Cecily and Drake came together to kiss each other very carefully and chastely. Jane had turned to Carr and he, very slowly, reached out his right hand to offer to take Jane’s left and she raised the hand to marry with his. The pressure on his own fingers told Carr everything and he raised her hand to kiss it, which gesture caused Jane to take one small step towards him. It was the closest they had ever been, but the moment was broken by Drake and Cecily opening the door. However, Jane did not release Carr’s hand until they came to the waiting closed carriage, this with the crest of Cecily’s family on the door; the Fynings. They were using a carriage owned by her aunt, this being all part of the subterfuge, but Jane did not enter the carriage; instead she turned to Carr, closer still than before and raised her face to his. He looked deep into her eyes for the briefest second, before lowering his face to hers, to meet his lips with hers for the merest, slightest touch. Then she was into the carriage and the closing door broke the shared look between each couple and then they were gone, and then all too soon trundled around the corner of the street and out of sight. It needed an elbow in the ribs from Drake for the stunned Carr to wake up to his duty to wave at Cecily as the coach turned the corner.

  ***

  At the same time, the ‘other ranks’ of the Regiment were marching towards their new camping grounds. The previous day, Lacey had sent a messenger ahead to the Mayor of Crewkerne, gathering places and numbers of billets for all his Officers. Luckily, the billet allocated to Carr and Drake was in the town, whilst the most of the rest of the Regiment marched on and off, to a variety of places, mostly somewhat Eastwards. Joe Pike was marching just behind Miles and Davey and the lanes and the houses began to look very familiar, this confirmed by their finally passing between the ornate stone pillars of a very impressive gateway. The gates themselves, painted an ostentatious gold and shiny black, each thrust right back to the edge of the driveway, this well defined by its junction with the edge of manicured lawns.

  “Tom, John. I know this place. I used to work here, I was a fencer. This place is called Farslake Hall, owned by the Coatsleys. At least it was back then. It was my last job.”

  Both his audience knew that this ‘job’ had nothing to do with swords, it was merely concerned with posts and rails, but Miles was unimpressed. His temper was not improved by the fact that the soles of his boots were finally giving out, to the extent that he could feel every prominent stone he trod on up from the pale shingle drive they were now marching over.

  “And what good’s that goin’ to do? You’ll be able to march up to his Lordship or Earlship an’ he’ll give you a joint of beef an’ a bottle of brandy, for old time’s sake?”

  Davey felt irked himself by Miles’ harsh rejection.

  “The boy’s just sayin’! Knowin’ the place can’t do no harm. May even do some good.”

  In the event it did, but first came new uniforms. Modesty required that the men march deep into the woods, followed by a train of supply wagons and there, using a convenient stream, they washed and put on new, committing all their old, bar their already new cross-belts, cartridge boxes and shakoes, to a smouldering pile in a clearing. General Perry had finally performed his duty and provided what was needed most. Whilst this was taking place, Lacey and O’Hare approached the main door of the grand house, this being double leaved, black, with crystal glass in the upper half, all beneath a barbican sized portico. Lacey rang the bell. Nothing happened and so he rang it again. The door was opened by a stern faced woman, she being identified as female solely from the severe iron grey dress that she wore. Had she been in men’s clothing, they would have taken “her” to be of the male gender. She spoke no greeting and so Lacey filled the silence.

  “Good morning. We are the 105th Foot. I am under the impression that Mr. Coatsley is expecting us.”

  There was a pause and both men felt the chill.

  “You are correct.”

  Nothing more was forthcoming and so Lacey continued.

  “Well, perhaps you could tell him that we are here, and that we would like to offer our thanks for his kind hospitality.”

  Again, a frosty pause.

  “No need. I am his Housekeeper and you may deal with me. My instructions are to have you conducted to the West wing, which has been prepared for you, your Officers only, that is.”

  The omission of “your men” told its own story. Plainly, they were to camp out in the open, but Lacey was still engaged with the formalities.

  “Then permit us to introduce ourselves. I am Lieutenant Colonel Lacey and this Officer is Major O’Hare.

  O’Hare half bowed, oozing Irish charm.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.”

  The stony visage remained.

  “I am Mrs. Gimlet.”

  Both men laughed inwardly at so appropriate a name, but Lacey did not let it show. He took a deep breath to help.

  “We have wounded. Also women and children. Where may they stay?”

  There was a long pause and the movement of her eyes told that she had no answer as pre-delivered by Coatsley, instead she had to think for herself, but an answer came, spoken testily.

  “I have no instructions, but behind your wing are stables, for both horses and carriages. Any space you find there, you may use.”

  With that she turned away and beckoned a black liveried servant.

  “Thornby here will show you the way.”

  She stepped back to allow Thornby to exit and, with that, she closed the door, leaving Lacey and O’Hare staring at their reflections in the bright crystal. O’Hare turned to the obediently waiting Thornby.

  “Lead on. Please.”

  The servant took them on a 100-yard walk across the left half of the imposing frontage of Farslake Hall, to eventually turn a corner, which showed a side entrance. Thornby went to the doors and opened them to reveal what was a ballroom. Remaining obediently silent, he allowed the two to enter. Lacey looked at him.

  “Are there rooms above?”

  Thornby nodded.

  “Yes Sir. You have the next floor up. This is the guest wing.”

  Lacey nodded.

  “And the stables?

  Thornby went out through the still open doors.

  “This way, please, Sirs.”

  They followed him again, for merely a 50 yard walk this time, to an imposing building with six high, wide doors, evidently to allow the storing of carriages. While Lacey and O’Hare examined the impressive frontage, Thornby bowed and took his leave. Lacey looked at O’Hare.

  “So, let’s take a look.”

  ‘A look’ revealed just three unoccupied spaces, these in the carriage section, but the rear of these parking spaces was merely a wooden stable partition behind which was a space fully occupied by horses. For a stable, it was clean, but the place stank of the animals it contained in such close proximity. Lacey looked at O’Hare.

  “We can’t keep wounded in here, so close to these horses.”

  He looked around further, as if to confirm his decision.

  “They can have the ballroom. Any followers with ailments go in with them.”

  He looked at O’Hare.

  “Use this as a store. Put a guard on it.”

  They then left to return to the ballroom and soon messengers were running around the grounds giving orders and information. When Lacey returned to his now erected command tent he was greeted by Bryce, his Clerk Sergeant
.

  “Sir. A letter’s arrived for you, Sir. It’s on the table inside.”

  Lacey went straight in to see the letter on the table. It was on mean, cheap paper, barely above newsprint quality. Lacey carefully opened it to find it was from General Perry and sparse to the point of discourtesy, summoning Lacey and O’Hare to a meeting. Lacey placed the letter to one side and then sent for O’Hare. He had no illusions that the meeting would not be a pleasant one

  By the afternoon, the men were setting up camp in the woods, using the trees for both shelter and fuel. The Officers, bar the lucky few such as Drake and Carr in the town, were settling into the rooms above and the wounded were being carried into the ballroom, including several followers each with their own “wound” or malady. The midday meal was soon prepared over good fires, there being plenty of fallen branches and, with both now fed, Joe took Mary’s hand.

  “I used to work here. Let’s go see if any I knew are still here.”

  They set out across the lawn and went first to the kitchens, where Joe was immediately recognised amid squeals of delight and all there, bar the Cook herself, incongruously, but by force of habit, curtsied to Mary when she was introduced. The Cook seeing Mary and the obvious affection that Joe had for her, soon made up a sizeable parcel of ‘left overs’, which Mary gratefully slipped into her haversack. With that they left, but rounding the corner, they bumped into another figure familiar to Joe.

  “Mr. Tilsley!”

  The stocky figure halted and looked up at Joe, somewhat puzzled.

  “It’s me, Mr. Tilsley. Joe Pike! Perhaps you remember?”

  Tilsley's face changed completely to one of genuine pleasure.

  “Joe! Yes of course.”

  He looked Joe up and down.

  “So you joined up! And look at you now! Ha!”

  He seized Joe’s hand, which he pumped up and down. Between jerks of his right arm, using his left hand, Joe pointed at Mary.

  “This is my Mary. We’ve been together now over a year.”

  Tilsley let go of Joe’s hand to take one of Mary’s in both of his.

  “You are welcome my dear. Most welcome. Joe was a fencer here, before the army.”

  He left out the circumstances of Joe’s leaving and turned his attention back to Joe. Then his face changed.

  “Are you back from Portugal? Part of Moore’s army”

  Joe nodded.

  “I am, that’s right.”

  “Bad business Joe, the country’s in uproar about it.”

  He leaned forward, consolingly.

  “But don’t let that worry you. You beat the French before you left, and that’s to be proud of, and more’s the pity that no one seems to want to dwell on that. Very much more’s the pity, in my view!”

  He beamed at both, then slapped Joe on the arm.

  “Well, I must be about my business. Come and see us before you leave.”

  Both nodded and left to cross the lawn again, but this time under the baleful gaze of RSM Gibney, but they were wandering back, not wandering off and so he held his peace. As did Tom Miles when Mary delivered the parcel from the Cook. It contained offal that the ‘Family’ would never touch, kidneys, sweetbreads, liver and a sheep’s heart. All added a significant amount of meat to their stew that night and much was left over for the frying pan for breakfast. However, Nelly did not pass up the opportunity to discomfit Tom Miles over the extra.

  “Now then, Tom, would you like a nice fried kidney as was brought back by Joe, like, him bein’ in the good grace of the cook an’ such, havin’ worked here, you understand.”

  A black scowl was the only reply, but his bowl was lifted up to receive, nevertheless.

  That very good breakfast brought a smile to the faces of all, bar Bridie, whose pained expression was soon noticed by the arch worrier, Jed Deakin.

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh ’tis nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

  Nelly had also noticed and was having none of such an answer, she knowing the true cause.

  “’Tis and all! ’Tis her foot, Jed. A toe ’as been painin’ of her since we come off that hill at Corunna. If y’ask me ’tis mortifying.”

  At the dreaded word Jed sprang forward and knelt before Bridie, who was sat on an empty barrel.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  The boot and sock were removed and Jed did not fail to notice the wince of pain that came across his Bridie’s face as both came off. He held the foot gently in his hand and but a short glance told him all he needed to know.

  “Nelly’s right. It’s mortifying and crossing the knuckle.”

  He looked up into her face, hers matching the deep concern in his.

  “You’ll have to see the Surgeon. If he wants coin to see you, well that’s no problem.”

  They shared another look, before Deakin gave his verdict.

  “We’ll go now. And you’ll not walk another step on that foot!”

  He turned away, a Colour Sergeant again, to address the onlookers.

  “John, Joe, Toby. Get a chair or some such, or some poles. We’ve to carry Bridie here across to the house.”

  A chair, unsurprisingly, was not to be found, but five poles were and John Davey, the woodsman and ex-poacher, expertly lashed the five together to form a seat, with four side extensions for the carrying of. That done, Bridie was scooped up onto the platform and all set off.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Gimlet was stood at the ballroom door, dispensing a look that would have frozen a waterfall. Instead of the dancing floor being occupied by the polite society of relaxing Army Officers, it was a hospital ward, including women, scandalously in the same place as the men, with children running around. There was even an operation taking place, thankfully not an amputation, but plainly, from the cries of discomfort, it was very painful. She looked around for a target and found one. She would have much preferred to vent her spleen on ‘that Colonel or his Major’ but her anger was too full to accommodate any delay. Lieutenant Ameshurst was stood nearby overseeing the wounded from his section of Grenadiers and Mrs Gimlet did not recognise any need to approach him, she merely raised her voice to ‘servant ordering’ mode.

  “Are you an Officer here?”

  Ameshurst had no idea who was being spoken to but it could be him and so he turned around to see for himself and then experience the harpoon gaze of Mrs. Gimlet, but, nevertheless, he smiled and set about being as pleasant as he could.

  “For the want of a better word, Ma’am, yes.”

  Mrs. Gimlet paused momentarily to dismiss the cheerful response, so that it made no impact on the composition of her own reply.

  “This is a disgrace. I specifically stated that this was for Officers and that means Officers only. You have turned it into some kind of infirmary for whomsoever you choose, including, these, these ………..”

  She sought for the right word.

  “………… attached people!”

  She drew further breath.

  “You have broken the terms of the agreement we made with the Mayor! Be certain that I will be informing Mr. Coatsley!”

  Ameshurst took a deep breath himself, now somewhat saddened at such a verdict upon what he saw as an obviously good use of the space.”

  “Sorry you feel that way, Ma’am. Our Colonel intended no sleight upon you or your Mr. Coatsley, I feel sure. It’s just that, well, wounded, sick and injured are a special case, Ma’am. At least that’s how we see it. To be given the best treatment we can come up with.”

  “I spoke specifically of the stable for such as this!”

  Ameshurst screwed his mouth sideways, as he always did when being required, against his good nature, to contradict someone.

  “Well a stable, Ma’am, is hardly the best place for those with open wounds and the like. Flies and dirt and all. To be frank, I’m not surprised that our Colonel moved them here.”

  Joshua Heaviside, having his bandage changed, had heard all and was not at all impressed. On top he was possessed o
f a character far less diplomatic or ameliorative than that of Ameshurst. He began in typical fashion.

  “The merciful man doeth good to his own soul: but he that is cruel troubleth his own flesh. Proverbs 11. Verse 17.”

  Ameshurst smiled and backed away one step, whilst Mrs. Gimlet’s brows knitted together perplexed, but Heaviside was in his pulpit, fixing Mrs. Gimlet with his own dark eyes under black and overhanging brows, his eyes seeming to come from some smouldering pit.

  “These are our wounded and of our own. We, together, have journeyed through trials, dangers and hardships beyond your understanding. These have succoured me as I have them. Are we now, at your mean behest, to cast them out, into a cold and bare stable, to live and heal or die amongst the beasts of the field? I say thy mean spirit does thee no credit. Go then, to thy Master and inform him that sick and wounded lie within his house and ask that they be cast out, but first examine your mission. How Christian? The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me. Ruth 1, verse 8.”

  Into this heavy discussion suddenly came the four carrying Bridie. Mrs. Gimlet took advantage of the timely interruption and gratefully crossed the floor to leave at the far door, but, whilst Heaviside watched her go, Ameshurst was paying attention to the new arrivals. Deakin chose him for his request.

  “Sir. Bridie Mulcahey, Sir. She has mortification in her foot, her toe, to be exact. Can she see a Surgeon, please Sir?”

  Ameshurst looked at Heaviside and then back at Deakin, then back at Heaviside.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of our Surgeon, Sir?”

  Heaviside raised his walking stick and pointed.

  “There! But in the middle of what I take to be surgery.”

  He then rose to his feet.

  “You are to take this seat, good lady. I need to be about my business. Because of laziness the roof caves in, and because of idle hands the house leaks. Ecclesiasticus 10, verse 18.”

  With that he lurched off, within the good gaze of all, but Ameshurst was thinking.

  “Our own Surgeon is busy, but there is a local doctor who has arrived, and is visiting.”

  He peered around.

  “There he is. I’ll fetch him over.”