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

by Martin McDowell

  Carr smiled in the darkness and tactfully changed the subject.

  “What’s Spencer doing now?”

  Bethan continued.

  “He’s a carter. Says his new foot gives him better balance on the cart seat!”

  Carr looked across, even in the dark, and laughed.

  “I’m glad. So many end up begging on the street.”

  “You ’ere that, Jim. Runnin’ the farm’s a better bet!”

  No answer, perhaps because they had stopped. Tying up Junot, Carr helped Jim insert Bethan through a downstairs window and averted his eyes as the couple shared a last fond kiss. Before the window closed, Bethan’s head re-appeared to talk in a hushed whisper.

  “Make sure he gets somethin’ to eat, Jim, afore he goes on.”

  With that, the window closed and soon after Carr found himself in a small, but well appointed barn. Junot was given some oats in a bucket and water alongside, whilst Carr spread his blanket on the hay. Jim went out, but soon re-appeared with a cloth bundle.

  “’Tis a fruit pie, Sir. Take it an’ welcome. Mother always makes a batch, for sellin’ on, like.”

  Carr stood and felt inside his pocket. He felt the thick shape of a guinea and handed it to his host.

  “Here’s for your kindness. Buy Bethan something special.”

  Jim had bit on the coin and found it very satisfactory.

  “I will, Sir, and the very best to you on your quest.”

  “And when you see your Bill Spencer, tell him that Captain Carr of the Light Company wishes him the very best of fortune.”

  “Captain Carr. Light Company. I’ll do that, Sir. Good night.”

  The door closed. Carr took three bites of the pie, then settled to a sound sleep. He was awoken in the early dawn, either by the noisiest cockerel he had ever heard, or Junot pulling at his halter, to bring the weight noisily crashing against the ring-stop on the stall side post. It may well have been both. He fed Junot the rest of the oats and washed himself in the trough outside. Within ten minutes he was back in the saddle and on the open road, eating the rest of the pie to the regular rhythm of Junot’s long striding canter.

  The day passed according to the hands of his watch. Two hours in the saddle, fifteen walking, with every four hours for a ten-minute stop, for water and grazing. He was hungry again, but, just in time, the church spires and then the central tower of Exeter Cathedral came into sight. He debated stopping for a meal, but Junot was still fresh, tossing his head and working the ground with his hoof, so he bought pies, pasties and fruit and set Junot to the Plymouth road, again paying tuppence for a turnpike. From that point was an endless climb up onto the heights of Dartmoor and the sight sent a chill through his memory of barren, cheerless Spanish uplands. It was but a short step of the imagination to paint onto the austere landscape before him, the picture of the endless column and the harrowing sights at the side of the road, almost every yard. He thrust the image back and set about the concerns of his own present. The day was passing and it was beginning to rain. Junot had slowed to a fast walk and Carr had only a vague idea of how far he was from any destination, this being hopefully a place to spend the night. The rain became heavier and so he donned his heavy cloak and rescued his blanket from the rain by draping its roll over the pommel of the saddle where it would be protected. It was plain that both he and the horse were weary, but the road stretched on, bleak, grey and stony, puddles forming by the minute.

  The dying of the day lasted an hour and then Carr was forced to follow not the road ahead, but the stone road markers passing to his left. Suddenly came a series that were whitewashed and he looked up and ahead to see dim lights through the mist and rain. One set proved to be an Inn, not well appointed, but, on enquiry, large enough to have a stable and rooms for rent. He saw Junot well fed and stabled, then he returned to the main bar, where it soon became obvious that he was the centre of attention for those within, bar the Innkeeper, who stood like one of the stone waymarkers behind his bar, drying his beer pots, studiously ignoring Carr’s arrival. Carr looked at him directly and did not like what he saw, but there was no other choice.

  “Please, may I know the name of this village?"

  There was no pause in the polishing hands, and the reply was a flat, staccato single word.

  “Moretonhampstead.”

  The brevity of the reply created a pause before Carr’s next question.

  “How far to Plymouth, please.”

  The reply was equally brief.

  “Twenty five mile. Give or take.”

  Carr studied him.

  “Give or take what?”

  The Innkeeper grinned showing canine yellow teeth.

  “Give or take what gets in your way.”

  Laughter emerged from around the bar, but the Innkeeper continued, on a slightly different tack.

  “We don’t much like King’s men around here.”

  Carr nodded.

  “No King’s man, me, at least no Revenuer. Your business is your own, mine’s in Plymouth. I just want to get there.”

  The slightest change came over the man, as Carr continued.

  “I’m just a soldier, just back from Spain.”

  No comment, so Carr continued.

  “Can you provide me with a meal, please?”

  At least this time a nod and a clear answer.

  “’Tis just stew!”

  Carr smiled, in the hope of making some measure of friendly connection.

  “Stew is perfect. Hot and warming!”

  The Innkeeper nodded and went through a side door to reappear with a large bowl of the stew, although it looked to be mostly vegetables. Carr picked up the spoon, but did not yet eat; instead he looked at his watch. It said 6.30 exactly.

  “Can I be woken at 2 o’ clock in the morning? I need to be at Plymouth by daybreak.”

  The answer was a series of head nodding as the Innkeeper disappeared back into the kitchen. Then Carr’s attention was turned to a wizened old man sat but two yards away.

  “Be this the King’s business you be on, or your own?”

  Carr looked at him before dipping in the spoon.

  “Both!”

  “Soldier’s business?”

  “In part. The rest, my own.”

  The man nodded and returned to his drink, but spoke whilst looking into it.

  “My son were taken by the Press. Down Plymouth.”

  Carr swallowed the mouthful.

  “I’m sorry! Have you heard from him?”

  This time the Innkeeper answered, having re-appeared.

  “Heard what? How can you hear word of a pressed man? You only knows they’ve been taken when they don’t come back at day’s end, and you only knows they’n still alive when they walks back through the door, years later. You don’t even get the word, when they gets DD.”

  Carr looked at the Innkeeper.

  “DD?”

  “Discharged dead!”

  A pause.

  “You’ll find few with a likin’ for King George round ’ere!”

  There was finality to the last words and Carr did not pursue the discussion any further.

  “I’ll pay you now. You’ll not want to be woken, yourself, at two, I’d imagine.”

  A faint nod again.

  “Two shillin’ ’ll cover it.”

  Carr fished in his pocket for change and brought some out. The required two were included there and Carr placed both on the bar, each with its own click. Then he added a twopence piece.

  “A drink for this man!”

  The response was a glower from the Innkeeper, but a thank you from the man. Carr finished his stew and once again had cause to trouble the Innkeeper.

  “I’d like to go to my room now, please.”

  There was no change in the Innkeeper’s expression as he gestured with his head towards the corner of the bar.

  “Up the stairs, there. Your’s is on the left.”

  Carr nodded a response; he felt no inclination t
o give thanks. He picked up the two portmanteaus and was glad that the butt of the horse pistol was protruding clearly from one of them. At the top of the stairs was a candle on a small shelf, which he took into the room. Inside he considered his options. He did not like the company he was in, he did not trust them. Evidently he was thoroughly disliked and that made him a target. That meant risk and Carr never ignored any risk. He felt sure that they would not make any attempt on him, not armed as he was with sword and pistol, but Junot in his stable was another question. The only solution was to sleep with Junot in the barn, but the only way to it was back through the bar, where all could see his movements. He opened the window and looked out. It was still raining, heavier, but he was looking down at only a ten-foot drop from the window sill. He knotted two sheets together, ran the result loose through the handles of both portmanteaus and lowered them down. The sheet came back up when he released one end, then he tied that end to the bed and slid down himself, taking the candle. His last act was to make a sizeable knot in the end of the sheets and throw them back in through the window. This he did at a second attempt. The window had to remain open, but no matter. In the barn, Junot greeted him with a toss of his head.

  “Hello boy.”

  Carr patted and stroked his neck.

  “Seems like you and I are sharing the same bed.

  He unfastened the blanket from his saddle and settled himself into the hay store, instructing his mental reveille that he was on guard in three hours. Soon he was asleep.

  He was not sure what woke him, perhaps Junot restless in his stall, him now stamping and whinnying. Carr lay still and listened. Something was pushing against the door, he could hear the regular creak of the hinges, but Carr had put the inside bar in place. He rolled back his blanket, took the pistol in his left hand and drew his sword with his right, then he marched forcefully to the door, whilst shouting loudly a pirate threat, remembered from his boyhood reading.

  “If anyone’s out there, I’ll see the colour of his insides, see if I don’t!

  He threw up the bar, yanked open the door and stepped into the space. Nothing! He stepped outside and looked both ways and again to the front. Again nothing. He looked down for footprints in the mud and saw only pools of water. He shook his head and re-closed the door, then somewhat wearily slotted home the bar. Returning to his bed, he sheathed his sword and dropped the pistol onto a portmanteau. Once back under his blanket, he examined his suspicions. Were they unjustified? These were people who were getting the rough end of the war with France; did they not have a right to voice their discontent? He shook his head and returned to a fitful sleep, often disturbed by Junot’s shenanigans in his stall. After a spell of sleep that both came and went, he came fully awake. It was still dark. He found his tinderbox and lit the candle, to then lead Junot out of his stall.

  “Come on, boy. We’ve had enough of this!”

  He found a sack, which he stuffed full of oats and this he added to his own portmanteaus behind the saddle, before placing another twopence piece in an obvious place for payment, then led Junot out into a dry night and, encouragingly, found a good moon dodging in and out of scurrying clouds. Soon they were on the road and Junot was into his ground-eating stride.

  ***

  The first person he saw was a fisherman, obvious from him hauling his catch of fish in a wide basket onto a landing stage from his small boat, which he had sculled up a tributary of the estuary, Carr assumed as he Carr stopped on the bridge.

  “Morning!”

  The man nodded, but seeing the uniform he said no more.

  “How far to Plymouth, please?”

  The man pointed.

  “Not far, now, just some beyond that hill.”

  Then a thought came to Carr.

  “There’s a fleet of transports, for soldiers, off to Spain. When will they sail, can you tell me?”

  For the first time the man smiled.

  “Well, Sir, they’n still thur, and the tide’s just now come on the make, so twill be a good while afore there’s water over the bar!”

  Carr took that to mean that, at that moment, there was low water and the tide had just turned to come in. For the first time he genuinely smiled and felt in his pocket to find a shilling. He held it up for the man to see, then tossed it for him to catch.

  “That for your children. Buy them all a sweetmeat! I’m sure you have several.”

  The man raised a finger to his forehead, as Carr spurred Junot on.

  ‘Beyond that hill’ proved to be miles of road, but he could now see Plymouth and the gathering of masts behind the congregation of church spires and towers. Junot cantered on and in, for them soon to be swallowed into the narrow streets. Carr was hungry, but more urgent was to find Bentinck. The part of town near the harbour was a maze, the widest street little more than a London alley, but Carr wanted the quayside and so, following logic, he kept turning downhill, following the widest of the choices of route presented between the polyglot of buildings.

  This proved to be wise. Soon, at the end of a street he had chosen, could be seen no more buildings, only the expanse of the harbour. A few more strides from Junot and they were on the quayside, for Carr to see transports, lined up bows to stern, with files of soldiers going aboard. An Army Captain was stood, idly observing proceedings, particularly the guns being hoisted aboard, suspended from a ship’s yardarm. Carr approached.

  “Good morning!”

  The Captain turned. He looked very young.

  “Morning!”

  “Can you help me, please? I have an urgent letter for General Bentinck.”

  The youngster raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, Headquarters is up there.”

  He pointed both up and along the quay.

  “But they’re about to embark. The place was emptying rapidly, last time I was there. They’re probably on their way down.”

  Carr paused.

  “Which road will they use?”

  The young face contorted from strained thought.

  “I know the road, but not it’s name.”

  Carr looked sternly at him.

  “Describe it.”

  “Well. It’s cobbled and has two buildings, one at each corner, but …….”

  More cudgelling of his memory.

  “One is an Inn. On the right, I think.”

  Carr nodded, somewhat exasperated.

  “My thanks.”

  He remounted and Junot trotted on. At the first street that met the description, Carr turned up. He could see a gloomy fortress at the top and, thus encouraged, he spurred Junot on. There was a sentry at the gate, who immediately presented arms. Carr dismounted.

  “At ease.”

  The musket came down.

  “General Bentinck. Is he still within?”

  Nervousness came into the face below the shako.

  “No Sir. Just gone this minute, Sir, and his Staff with him.”

  Carr stepped closer.

  “Which street?”

  The sentry pointed.

  “Why that one, Sir. ’Tis the quickest down.”

  It was not the one that Carr had come up. He remounted and pulled Junot’s head around. Almost at a gallop they entered the narrow entrance, but there were twists and turns and the cobbles steepened, so Carr reined the horse back for safety’s sake, however, around a turn, he saw red uniforms and beyond them was the harbour. Somehow, Junot also felt the urgency and he broke into a canter for the last hundred yards. On reaching the first red uniform at the rear, Carr dismounted and led Junot past them all and up to the head of the group. There he saw Bentinck, whom he recognised, and it was not long before Bentinck recognised the Captain stood rigidly to attention before him. Bentinck peered forward.

  “Carr, isn’t it? I remember you from that farmhouse at Corunna. What are you doing here? Have you transferred out of the One hundred and Fifth?”

  “No, Sir. I am still with them, and I have a letter for you, here, Sir, from Colonel Lacey.”
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  Carr reached inside his tunic to extract the letter and offer it to Bentinck, who took it, but did not open it.

  “What does it say?”

  “That they’ve received no reply to their enquiry to you regarding my Brevetcy, Sir, and they need some decision if they are to finalise their Officer Corps, Sir.”

  Total puzzlement came across Bentinck’s face.

  “But I replied to that, two weeks ago.”

  The puzzlement remained, then he turned to look at his Staff, halted behind.

  “Tavender! Templemere!”

  The names hit Carr like a hammer, but he did not show it, forcing every part of himself to remain stock-still. The two emerged from the group behind and saluted, Templemere stealing a look in Carr’s direction. Bentinck was in a hurry and in no mood for detailed questioning.

  “Those letters about Carr’s brevetcy. They haven’t arrived. Why?”

  There was silence for a long second, before Tavender spoke, but there was just a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

  “Can’t say, Sir. We sent them off.”

  Bentinck turned again to Carr.

  “And you’ve heard nothing from Horse Guards?”

  “No Sir.”

  Bentinck turned again to the pair.

  “So, we can assume that that letter did not arrive, either!”

  He stood foursquare before them.

  “Two! Two vital letters gone astray. And no explanation!”

  The last word was shouted, but the reply was mumbled.

  “No Sir.”

  He turned again to Carr.

  “So you’ve ridden yourself to catch me?”

  “Yes, Sir. I left last Tuesday Noon.”

  Bentinck nodded before turning to glower again at the pair before him.

  “Right. You’ll not go back empty handed.”

  He looked back through his Staff.

  “Rogerson!”

  A Clerk Sergeant hurried forward.

  “Break out pen, ink and paper.”

  Bentinck turned into a shop doorway.

  “Follow me!”

  Rogerson flicked open the deep leather bag, but extracted nothing. He now required to follow Bentinck, who turned at the doorway to look at Tavender and Templemere.

  “And you two!”

  He then looked at Carr, his face quickly becoming less irate.