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Henry George Aloysius Carr; the second son of the Carrs of South Hatherleigh, these being landed, but secondary gentry in the Parish of that name. At the age of 17, after a good education at a lesser Public School, he had been packed off to the Army by the simple expedient of buying him a Commission in the 6th Regiment of Foot. By the fortunes of war he too quickly found himself as the Junior Officer in the single company of that good Regiment that saw action in the second Irish Rebellion of Summer 1798. The landing of over 1,000 French Regulars had rekindled the rebellion and so 2,000 French and Irish Rebels under the French General Humbert met 6,000 British, mostly Irish Militia, under General Lake outside Castlebar in County Mayo, Western Ireland. When the Militia in the British centre gave way before a determined French column, the whole line collapsed and the 6,000 retreated so fast that the aftermath became known as the “Castlebar Races”, save the lone company of the 6th fighting its way off the stricken field. With his Captain dead, Carr became the Officer in Command, with not enough military knowledge to fill an eggcup! However, his Sergeants of long service quickly made suggestions amidst the mayhem that regularly met with the reply of either,
“Yes, make it so”, or “Yes, carry on.”
Usually his agreement was little more than a confirmation of an order already being carried out. It began with a rallying square in which they fought their way off the battlefield and then two steady lines each firing alternate volleys at a rate of three rounds a minute. When a battle-maddened Irish Patriot reached their line, it was Carr that advanced out to turn the bayonet aside with his sabre and the Senior Sergeant who ended the threat with a shot from so close a range that it set the Irishman’s coat on fire! The six rounds a minute gave them respite, so then followed an orderly retreat with the first line filing back through the second to reload. Their numbers grew as veterans from within the Militia, mostly old NCO’s, joined the company, recognising the steady conduct of the 6th as the safest route out of what could easily become a massacre. Thus, this company of the 6th completed their retreat with twice their original number and with Carr as the lone Officer.
They marched on unmolested and approached Tuam where the “Races” had finally run their course and the defeated Militia were mostly gathered. One of his good Sergeants again made a suggestion.
“Will you march the lads in, Sir?”
Young Carr looked puzzled, but agreed.
“Yes. Make it so.”
The 200 or so formed fours on the road.
“Say a few words to the lads, Sir? They fought well, Sir. Got us out of a bad business.”
“Er, yes, if you think I should.”
“Yes Sir. The lads always appreciates an Officer taking the trouble.”
In this way, Carr, the shaver Officer, found himself mumbling tangled sentences of congratulations at 200 odd hardened veterans, all dirty, some bloody. However, they all stood stock still with shouldered arms and even gave three cheers for Lieutenant Carr. The order came for “Right turn, quick march” and with Carr at the head and the Sergeants and Corporals ranged down the flanks they marched into the camp.
Carr fell back alongside the Senior Sergeant.
“I don’t see how I deserved that, Sergeant. Their cheering, I mean.”
“Begging you pardon, Sir, but yes you did. You stood with the lads in the front rank, always the front rank, and set a good example. That’s all that was needed, Sir.”
The lesson was not lost on Carr. Battle drill and steady conduct had won their way out of a perilous situation, a full defeat, but more so, the simple facts of keeping his head and sharing their dangers, had won him the respect of the men.
Lake was soon massively reinforced and renewed his challenge on Humbert who was moving around the country, trying to link up with other Irish Rebels. However, defeat soon came for him when his mixed force was caught at Ballinamuck between both General Lake and the new Viceroy, Lord Cornwallis. The French were later repatriated, having laid down their arms, but the Irish Rebels taken prisoner were massacred on the spot by the Militia. Carr and his company, back in reserve, took little part in a battle that lasted but minutes, but they were part of the force that were given the task of taking the rebel stronghold of Killala. First amongst those ordered to the assault, the intimidating column of veterans was easily the first into the town and the first to the plunder. They found themselves facing the town bank and the door was quickly stove in and soon they came across a hoard of gold coin, in a thirty neat leather bags, each marked with the black silhouette of The Emperor. The money was part of the finance for the French invasion. Carr took his first military decision.
“Those Militia bastards are not getting their hands on this. Get the Sergeants. I want these in their knapsacks. Any man that remains in this town loses his share.”
Carr and his Sergeants pulled their men away from the town to begin the share out. There was no argument from the men, to them the coin was easily preferable than the alternative of rapine and drink that could often finish on a rope’s end, either knotted as a noose, or combed out into a lash.
Carr had held both himself and his men out of the scenes of rape, revenge and slaughter that finished the Irish Rebellion of 1798 and he returned to England substantially richer. Within the ranks of the 6th his military skills improved and, after three more years, with good references, he obtained his advancement by buying a Captain’s Commission in the King’s Own Royal Fusiliers.
However, now, as a civilian, he rode a closed carriage with his two Seconds, through a cold, but dry and still October dawn. The atmosphere was sombre, no conversation; this was a first for all three. The appointed place was a lonely meadow close to a sluggish stream, picking its careful way through a bed thick with reeds. As the carriage swung around to face the open space, it was clear that they were first. Nevertheless, despite the cold, Carr stripped down to his shirt, took himself off to a corner of the field with one of his Seconds and ran through a few fencing exercises. Minutes passed, the opposition was late, but eventually a huge, black, open carriage appeared, with the crest of the Templemeres gaudy on the side. The current Lord descended, followed by two Seconds, both with a “routine”, even amused, set to their faces, one carrying a long case, the other, a short. Templemere walked to the river edge, whilst the two Seconds approached the single Second that remained by the opposite coach. As they approached, both watched Carr exercising. One spoke to the other.
“He’d better watch out that he don’t get tired.”
Both chuckled and then reached the object of their walk.
“Good morning. I am Lord Charles Hopgood, and this is Lord Anthony Mahon. Whom have we the honour of addressing?’
“Lieutenant John Kerriack. King’s Royals. And the Officer over there is Captain Harry Rogers.”
“Just so. Now, we are instructed by our Principal to say that he states, on his honour, that he is no adept with a blade. Not much of a swordsman, if you take my meaning. He calls upon your man, if he counts himself a Gentleman, bound by honourable conduct, to accept this and conclude this affair with pistols. We have a brace here. Would you kindly put that to him?”.
Kerriack nodded and turned away to walk the distance to where Carr stood. Having now ceased their practice, Rodgers was wiping the handles of the blades, prior to a dusting with French chalk.
“I’ve just been talking to his Seconds. Their man again asks that the weapons be pistols, as he is no swordsman. On his word of honour.”
“He can go to Hell. Twice he called me a cheat and a liar, and then emptied brandy over me. Tell them that I do not feel that his Lordship would be obliging were the positions reversed. The weapons remain sabres. Tell them that. Exactly.”
Rodgers returned to the two figures, who had strolled, in his absence, closer to Carr. He relayed the answer and waited for their reply. None came, other than a curt nod of the head from Hopgood. Both then returned to their side of the meadow. When within earshot of Templemere, Hopgood spo
ke.
“He says no.
His face became quizzical.
“What was it you used on that insolent bastard Hinshelwood, the last time you were out?”
“Sabres.”
Smiles all round. Mahon opened the long box and Templemere extracted a sabre. All then walked to the centre ground. As they advanced so did Carr, but alone. Just beyond five paces the protagonists stopped and regarded each other, Templemere flexing the fine blade, Carr with the point on the toe of his right shoe, his fingers flexing forward, his palm upon the pommel. Neither spoke, but Templemere’s expression gave a clear message of deep loathing and hatred. Carr remained impassive. Lord Hopgood moved to the space between them.
“Gentlemen. How is this duel to be? Until first blood, or until one can no longer continue, or to the death? No quarter.”
Templemere spoke first.
“Until it is finished, be it death or otherwise. No quarter.”
Carr spoke.
“Make it so.”
Hopgood spoke again.
“This is a duel with edged weapons. The clear rules are that you both use only that weapon to lay a blow upon your opponent. No other type of blow is to be struck. Agreed?”
A pause, but no response.
“It is time to compare weapons. Please lay your blades alongside each other.”
The blades slid along each other, both points seeking the guard of the other. Carr’s was found to be longer, Templemere’s was short of Carr’s guard by an inch. Templemere took the brief moment to inflict a jibe.
“Where did you get your weapon, Carr? Winchester Farmers’ Emporium?”
Hopgood’s formal pomposity vanished into a smirk. The sabres were indeed, in marked contrast. Templemere’s was a finely crafted weapon. A shining, lightly engraved blade extending from a hilt with a single crosspiece and a slender silvered handguard. Carr’s, on the other hand, was a far more workaday weapon. A plain, steel blade, extending out of a wide dull metal bell guard that protected the knuckles of the hand. Carr replied with force.
“This sabre has seen me in and out of battle, Templemere! What about yours?”
Templemere ignored the repost and Hopgood continued, still amused.
“Lord Templemere, do you wish to take issue with the length of blade?”
“Get on with it.”
“Very well. Gentlemen, you should now open your shirts, to show no protection”.
Templemere pulled his open. Carr’s already was.
“Take point, and approach.”
Each adopted the “high point” and approached each other. Hopgood took both points in either hand.
“En garde. Allez!”
Pale dawn sunlight ran up and along the opposing blades as they touched, then parted, to menace the other or counter a threat. The duellists circled, then counter circled, each content to touch points, one side, then the other and feel for the mistake that could create an opening. There was no sound; as though the drama and frail mortality within the moment had halted the still awakening dawn. No sound, save the small tinkling ring of one blade tip upon another and the sound of their feet upon the still upright grass. Kerriack and Rogers stood stiff and tense, whilst their Lordships leaned upon their gilt topped canes, as though regarding something rather more commonplace.
It was Templemere who attacked first. Circling the point around his wrist, he whirled a cut at Carr’s left shoulder. Carr moved his blade across to his left and took the sweep on the underside, so that the arcing edge slid down to meet the guard. With Templemere’s weapon now down low, Carr swept his own weapon at Templemere’s right sword arm, but he lifted his sword hilt high and made the parry on the crosspiece, then dodged back. Both now resumed circling, but again Templemere took the initiative, attacking with both guile and ferocity. This time the exchange was furious, the flashing blades almost impossible to follow. Carr met the attack, not quite desperately, but it was clear that Templemere was no “dunce with a blade” and had the edge between the two. Carr tried an attack of his own, but Templemere turned Carr’s blade low and turned it into a platform for his own offence and pressed in again, fencing quickly, then thrusting for the chest, but Carr took the point over and they came together, hilt locked against hilt.
“Sweating yet, Carr? You should be.”
This time Carr’s superior strength told. Thrusting forward, he forced Templemere’s hilt back against his chest and pushing forward again, sent him back off balance and followed up with a cut of his own. However, Templemere made the parry cleanly, continued backward and regained his stance. With his body he feinted left, then went right, his sword arm moving all the while to execute a flick at Carr’s left shoulder. As the blow came, Carr passed his sabre across to his left to meet it, but the connection never came. Templemere had pulled back the sweeping blade so that the tip just missed Carr’s upright blade, then, with perfect timing, he thrust it forward. Carr reacted by ducking and dropping to his left, but the blade dug into the top of his right shoulder and slid on, creating a deep cut halfway between neck and shoulder point. Blood flowed. Hopgood stepped in.
“First blood to Lord Templemere. Carr. Do you concede and apologise?”
“No concession, nor apology. I fight on.”
Each again came to the high point, Hopgood took both points in his hands and signalled the resume’.
“En garde. Allez!”
Templemere immediately attacked Carr’s right side, forcing him to use the cut muscle to lift the blade to make a defence. The parry was slow, but it was completed. Templemere disengaged, but immediately his sabre whirled in, finding the awkward angles, thrusting and cutting, forcing Carr’s blade across and back in a defence that was becoming increasingly fragile. Templemere’s strong fencing, using wrist alone, was sending the arcing point flashing wickedly across Carr’s open chest and right side, the side now red from the open wound. Templemere for once attacked crudely, a simple attack from on high, the gleaming blade ringing onto Carr’s high horizontal parry that slid off to Carr’s left. However, Templemere had perfect control of his blade and flicked quickly upward for the very tip to connect with Carr’s forehead, perfectly dissecting his left eyebrow. A cut opened, deep to the bone.
Templemere remained just beyond reach, not quite threatening, but not quite neutral either. He wanted his opponent to feel the blood that was immediately running down into his eye. Lord Mahon had sidled around to stand beside Lieutenant Kerriack.
“Did we say that Templemere was no swordsman? Well, relative to his skill with a pistol, that is. I’d say he’s done just under half of his men with a sabre, the rest with a bullet. I’d say that things are getting a mite sticky for your man. I hope you’ve plenty of clean rag, to plug the holes I mean, or even enough to make a shroud! Ha.”
Carr felt again the pain in his shoulder and now pain high on his forehead. The blood from his shoulder was soaking his shirt and that from his forehead was blinding his eye. That itself was a stinging pain and he could now also feel the ache and stiffness growing in his shoulder. Templemere held off, his face lit by a mocking derisory grin. Carr felt a bitter, fighting hatred welling up inside him, his eyes narrowed to malevolent slits and the jaw muscles at the side of his face stood out as his teeth clenched together. He took one pace forward and circled to his right. Templemere followed the move, sabre “en garde”, clearly biding his time, waiting for the attack, then to judge the damage done to Carr by both injuries. The contest was plainly moving his way; either wound to Carr should be enough to help him finish it.
Carr came to the high point and tapped Templemere’s blade, once left, once right, then, pushing off his left leg, thrust straight forward directly at Templemere’s chest. Templemere took the thrust cleanly away to his right and withdrew his sword arm to make a thrust of his own that would have impaled Carr had there been time to get the point across, but Carr was coming in too fast. His forearm was up, his relaxed wrist dropping the sabre low, point down, protecting his left side
by engaging Templemere’s blade, preventing it moving across to thrust for Carr’s body. Carr’s forearm connected with Templemere’s throat, their chests touching. He pushed Templemere back, just enough to give himself room, then, with a vicious backhand, crashed the pommel of his sword into the side of Templemere’s face, breaking his right cheekbone. That done, he drew back his arm and smashed the bellguard into the exposed jaw, just left of centre.
Templemere’s eyes rolled upward and his knees sagged and buckled. However, as he sank to the ground, by some reflex his right hand came up, the sword dangling by the hand guard around the limp fingers. Carr took the proffered sword by its guard with his left hand and remained standing above the now prostrate Templemere, his own blade upright, his new acquisition pointing down. Hopgood sprang forward, incensed.
“A foul blow, Carr, not fair. I say you are forfeit. A damned ugly, illegal blow.”
Carr remained staring at the unconscious Lordship at his feet. Dramatically he speared Templemere’s sabre into the earth beside him and the hilt oscillated above the delicate blade, its shadow describing arcs upon the flattened turf. Eventually he turned to confront the enraged Hopgood.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 4